Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


https://archive.org/details/topomorninOOmacm 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


SOME  SEUMAS  MacMANUS  BOOKS 


Yourself  and  the  Neighbors 
Lo,  and  Behold  Ye! 

A Lad  of  the  O’Friels 
Donegal  Fairy  Stories 
In  Chimney  Corners 
Doctor  Kilgannon 
The  Red  Poocher 
Ballads  of  a Country  Boy 


TOP  O’ 

THE  MORNIN’ 

BY 

SEUMAS  MacMANUS 

Author  of  “ Lo , and  Behold  Ye!”  “Yourself  and  the 
Neighbors”  “Donegal  Fairy  Stories,”  etc . 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1899,  BY 
HARPER’S  BAZAR 

COPYRIGHT,  1899,  BY 
OUTLOOK  COMPANY,  INC. 

COPYRIGHT,  1901,  BY 
SEUMAS  MacMANUS 

COPYRIGHT,  1008,  BY 
THE  CENTURY  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1911,  BY 
ASSOCIATED  SUNDAY  MAGAZINES,  INC. 

COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
PICTORIAL  REVIEW  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved 


91661 


To 

EDWARD  BOK 


WITH  ESTEEM 


/ 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I The  Lord  Mayor  o’  Buffalo  ...  i 
II  The  Widow  Meehan’s  Cassimeer 

Shawl 18 

III  The  Cadger-Boy’s  Last  Journey  . . 41 

IV  The  Minister’s  Racehorse  ....  59 

V  The  Case  of  Kitty  Kildea  ....  77 

VI  Billy  Baxter’s  Holiday 101 

VII  Wee  Paidin ng 

VIII  When  Barney’s  Trunk  Comes  Home  . 136 

IX  Five  Minutes  a Millionaire  . . . 156 

X  Mrs.  Carney’s  Sealskin 176 

XI  The  Capture  of  Nelly  Carribin  . . 192 

XII  The  Bellman  of  Carrick  ....  207 

XIII  Barney  Brian’s  Monument  ....  225 

XIV  All  on  the  Brown  Knowe  ....  242 

XV  The  Heart-Break  of  Norah  O’Hara  . 261 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIM’ 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


i 

THE  LORD  MAYOR  O’  BUFFALO 

IT  was  in  smiling  April  it  all  happened;  and 
the  Lord  Mayor  o’  Buffalo  dawned  on 
Donegal — bringing  pleasure  and  pride  to  the 
simple,  noble  hearts  of  Barney  Gallagher  and  his 
good  wife,  Rosie. 

The  first  rumor  of  the  great  man’s  coming 
reached  Barney  and  Rosie  through  the  columns  of 
the  Donegal  Vindicator.  Barney  had  been  in 
town  that  same  day  selling  a load  of  turf — and 
brought  three  and  eleven  pence  and  the  Vindicator 
back  home  with  him  to  Rosie.  He  brought  a wet 
hide  home  with  him  likewise — for  the  thunder 
showers  caught  the  poor  fellow  only  half  ways 
home,  drenching  him  to  the  skin.  He  was  drying 
himself  out  by  the  fire  after  a hearty  supper,  and 
reeking  to  the  rafters  a pipe  of  Doherty’s  best 
tobacco — as  happy  as  if  he  was  sitting  in  heaven’s 
hall — and  Rosie  in  the  chimney  corner  fornenst 
him  entertaining  him  with  the  world’s  wonders 


2 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


out  of  the  Vindicator , when  she  stumbled  upon 
the  extraordinary  news. 

“Read  it,  again,  Rosie  a chroidhe,”  Barney  said, 
holding  the  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  with  astonish- 
ment. 

And  Rosie  read  again  how  the  Lord  Mayor  o’ 
Buffalo  (the  newspaper  man,  knowing  no  better, 
called  him  plain  Mayor) — how  the  Lord  Mayor 
o’  Buffalo,  ordered  abroad  by  his  doctor,  had 
landed  in  Cork  on  the  Tuesday  a week  past,  and 
was  presently  prowling  happily  around  the  place 
in  Tyrone  where  his  mother  was  born  when  she 
was  a child.  And  that  as  Father  Pat  Gillogley’s 
own  brother  of  Donegal  town  was  head  of  the 
Cathedral  priests  in  Buffalo  and  a particular 
friend  of  the  Lord  Mayor,  the  Lord  Mayor  was 
coming  through  to  see  Donegal’s  beauties,  and 
pass  a night  with  Father  Pat,  himself,  before 
going  further. 

“Well,  well,  well,  well!’’  said  Rosie,  lowering 
the  paper  and  looking  into  the  ashes.  “Well,  well, 
well!”  said  she.  “There’s  my  draim  read — and 
wee  Shusie’s  letter  unriddled  at  the  same  time!” 

Barney  solemnly  nodded  his  head.  He  knew 
that  their  little  Susie  who,  breaking  her  heart 
with  home-sickness,  was  now  three  years  in  Buf- 
falo— with  Johnny  and  Patsy — and  who  lived,  as 
she  had  often  told  them,  in  the  self-same  street 


THE  LORD  MAYOR  O’  BUFFALO  3 

with  the  Lord  Mayor,  had  three  months  ago 
threatened  to  send  a beautiful  American  shawl  to 
her  mother,  and  a silk  tie  to  her  father — with 
the  very  first  friend  she’d  find  going  home  from 
there.  And  following  this  up  in  her  very  last 
letter,  she  had  dropped  a mysterious  hint  that 
they’d  soon  get  a pleasant  surprise. 

Said  Rosie,  “Three  times  in  the  fortnight  that’s 
gone,  I dreamt  of  a white  horse,  which,  as  you 
know,  means  a visit  from  a welcome  sthranger.” 

Barney  solemnly  nodded  his  head  again  at  the 
turf  blaze  as  he  puffed  his  pipe.  He  knew  that 
Rosie’s  reading  of  dreams  was  good  as  gospel. 

Said  Rosie,  “The  Lord  Mayor  ’ill  have  the 
presents  and  messages  from  wee  Shusie  to  us, 
God  bliss  and  guard  her  ever  in  the  sthranger’s 
lan’.  She’ll  have  given  him  all  particulars  how 
to  know  our  house,  and  his  coach  will  stop  at  our 
door,  passin’  on  his  way  to  Father  Pat.  Belike 
he’ll  not  be  able  to  spend  more  than  an  evenin’ 
with  us  when  he’s  on  his  way.  But  he’ll  maybe 
be  fit  to  return  again  afther  he’s  got  enough  o’ 
his  reverence  (May  the  Lord  above  long  spare 
him!).” 

Instead  of  pleased,  it  was  flustered  completely 
Barney  was.  So  alarmed  that  the  pipe  nearly 
dropped  from  his  teeth.  And  he  said,  “Rosie, 
darlin’,  I haven’t  a daicent  dud  to  meet  a Lord 


4 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


Mayor  in.  And  for  wee  Shusie’s  sake,  I wouldn’t 
take  ten  pound  and  show  meself  in  these  year-o’- 
wans  to  him.  Shusie  ’ud  never  lift  her  head  again 
in  Buffalo  if  she  heerd  it.” 

“Whisht  with  you,  man  alive!”'  said  Rosie. 
“The  little  brannet  calf  ’ill  walk  to  Donegal  fair 
the  morrow’s  morn  and  buy  both  of  us  new  rig- 
outs.  The  same  calf  ’ill  fetch  five  pounds  if  it’ll 
fetch  a penny.” 

“But,  Rosie,”  said  Barney,  more  frightened 
still,  “the  calf  is  to  pay  the  rent.” 

“Never  mind,”  said  Rosie  philosophically, 
“God’ll  pay  the  rent.  ’Tis  not  the  first  time  he 
did  it.”  Barney  just  bowed  his  head — in  accept- 
ance and  acknowledgment.  “Thrue  for  ye!”  he 
said  reverently. 

The  only  question  then  that  puzzled  Rosie  was 
what  presents  should  she  give  the  Lord  Mayor 
o’  Buffalo  in  token  of  his  kindness.  Barney,  good- 
natured  blunderer  that  he  always  was,  suggested 
in  turn,  a laying  hen,  a mescan  of  Rosie’s  own 
yellow  butter,  a bag  of  potatoes,  a hive  of  bees 
— rising  more  generous  at  each  suggestion,  in  re- 
sponse to  Rosie’s  growing  disgust  which  he 
thought  he  drew  on  him  by  niggardliness. 

Said  Rosie,  “I  know  what  will  delight  him. 
You’ll  give  him  to  take  back  to  Buffalo  the  best 
blackthorn  stick  that  the  woods  grow,  and  meself 


THE  LORD  MAYOR  O’  BUFFALO  5 

’ill  knit  him  two  pairs  of  ringed  and  ribbed  socks 
— green  and  yellow — the  natest  my  fingers  can 
knit.” 

Barney  slapped  his  leg  resoundingly.  “By 
the  boots,  Rosie,”  he  said,  “ye’ll  make  the  man 
happy  for  life  and  delight  the  heart  of  him  here 
and  hereafter.  Ye  have  a wonderful  head-piece 
on  ye,  Rosie  agra 

And  Barney  looked  open-mouthed  admiration 
at  this  treasure  of  a wife  that  was  his.  ’Twas  al- 
most a joy  to  him  to  know  that  he  had  been,  from 
their  wedding  day  to  this  day,  nothing  but  a stupid 
blunderer — because  he  thereby  gave  this  wonder- 
ful wife  of  his  never-ending  opportunity  for  the 
exercise  of  her  guiding  genius. 

“He’ll  be  fit  to  tell  us,”  said  Barney,  “just  how 
Johnny  looks,  and  whether  Patsy  has  got  over  the 
heart-burn  that  used  to  plague  him  every  time  he 
ate  crubeens  and  cabbage. — When  he  knows  Shu- 
sie,  of  course  he’ll  know  our  two  brave  boys,  like- 
wise.” 

“Whisht,”  said  Rosie  impatiently.  “He  knows 
them,  of  course.  But  Pm  certain  he  never  heerd 
tell  of  Patsy’s  heartburn.  So,  don’t  go  makin’  a 
blatherskite  o’  yourself  inquirin’  about  such  things. 
’Twouldn’t  be  no  bit  o’  harm,  however,  to  hint  to 
him  that  Patsy’s  bein’  mentionin’  in  every  letter 


6 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


he  sent  this  last  year,  that  he’d  be  happy  for  life 
if  he  only  got  on  the  police.” 

“Rosie,”  said  Barney,  “I’ll  do  everything  ye 
tell  me,  and  nothing  ye  don’t  tell  me. — But  I’m  at 
the  same  time  thinkin’,”  he  added,  “that  it  would 
be  a long  sight  better  for  yourself  to  be  spokes- 
man, Rosie.  It’ll  do  meself  and  yourself  more 
credit  if  I’m  only  required  to  nod  me  head  to 
everything  you  say.” 

“It  ’ud  never  do,  ye  ffomachan!”  said  Rosie. 
“And  moreover,  it  would  he  highly  unmodest  of 
me. 

“I  never  open  my  mouth,  Rosie,  but  I put  my 
foot  in  it,”  Barney  protested. 

“Ay,  oftener  your  two  feet,  Barney,  a stor,” 
Rosie  answered  patiently. 

“Me  two  feet  first  and  all  of  me  after,”  Bar- 
ney amended  the  charge.  “That’s  me  for  you, 
every  time,  Rosie  darlin’.” 

“But,”  said  Rosie,  “I’ll  give  you  a good  drillin’ 
in  all  that  you’re  to  do  and  say:  and  you’ll  only 
have  to  remimber  my  directions  and  follow  them.” 
And  Barney  replied  lugubriously,  “That’s  all, 
Rosie.”  But  he  shook  his  head  at  the  cat  that 
was  curled  up  between  Rosie  and  the  chimney 
corner,  purring  as  though  she  didn’t  care  if  a regi- 
ment of  Lord  Mayors  were  to  descend  upon  Don- 


THE  LORD  MAYOR  O’  BUFFALO  7 


egal.  Barney  thought  how  happy  it  would  be  tu 
be  a cat. 

When,  before  retiring,  they  knelt  to  say  their 
nightly  rosary — with  their  feet  turned  to  the  fire 
— Barney’s  stockinged  toes  comforted  in  the 
warm  ashes — Rosie  added  to  her  usual  string 
of  requests,  “One  Pather  an’  Ave  to  God  for  the 
Lord  Mayor  o’  Buffalo — to  save  him  from  acci- 
dents, drownding,  or  sudden  daith — to  bliss  and 
prosper,  counsel  and  console  him,  now  and  at  the 
hour  of  daith.  Amen.” 

And  a busy  time  had  both  of  them  between 
then  and  the  day  that  the  great  man  was  due. 
And  a trying  time  had  Rosie — on  whose  broad 
shoulders,  of  course,  all  the  responsibility  fell. 
For  Barney,  light-heartedly  acknowledging  that 
he  wasn’t  used  to  entertaining  Lord  Mayors — 
and  that,  anyhow,  the  only  one  who  could  do  any- 
thing right  was  Rosie,  the  man  in  the  gap — cast 
care  aside,  smoked  his  pipe,  and  just  did  as  he 
was  directed. 

As  was  promised  for  it,  the  calf  had,  of  course, 
walked  to  the  fair  of  Donegal,  was  bargained 
about  and  sold  for  five  pound  ten,  by  Rosie.  The 
man  who  bought  the  calf,  indeed,  thought  it  was 
Barney  who  sold  it  to  him.  But  Barney,  who  had 
opened  his  mouth  every  time  only  to  translate  to 
the  purchaser  the  nods,  winks,  and  shrugs  of 


8 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


Rosie — Barney  knew  better.  And  the  wise  neigh- 
bors also.  And  new  and  handsome  rig-outs  for 
both  man  and  wife  resulted  from  the  little  ani- 
mal’s sale.  The  contingency  of  rent  was  now  in 
God’s  hands.  But  Barney  had  a suit  of  homespun 
that  no  Lord  Mayor  might  be  ashamed  to  meet — 
or  could  afterwards  talk  scandal  about  in  Buf- 
falo— and  Rosie,  a linsey-woolsey  dress  that 
would  adorn  any  Lord  Mayor’s  wife. 

But  nothing  was  too  good  or  too  dear  for  the 
occasion  and  man.  On  their  way  home  from  the 
fair,  they  had  fully  discussed  and  fixed  the  Lord 
Mayor’s  rank.  He  wasn’t,  of  course,  as  great  a 
man  as  Daniel  O’Connell — the  Great  Dan — but 
he  was  probably  a greater  man  than  Father  Pat 
— 'in  ways. 

They  made  it  their  business  when  in  town  to 
find  out  for  certain  that  the  Lord  Mayor  should 
arrive  by  coach  at  Father  Pat’s  parochial  house 
on  the  Wednesday  following — coming,  as  they 
had  anticipated,  through  Barnesmore  Mountain 
Gap,  and  passing  their  very  door.  “ ’Tis  only 
five  days  we  have,  Barney,”  said  Rosie,  “and  we 
must  make  the  most  of  it.” 

So,  the  very  next  evening,  she  started  Barney 
at  his  rehearsals  when  he  got  in  from  weeding 
his  potatoes.  She  found  a Lord  Mayor  in  Little 
Dinny  Managhan,  the  cripple,  who,  though  he  had 


THE  LORD  MAYOR  O’  BUFFALO  9 

to  use  crutches  for  his  body’s  aiding,  needed  none 
to  aid  his  nimble  mind.  He  made  a magnificent 
Lord  Mayor,  did  Dinny — would  have  put  many 
a real  Lord  Mayor  of  them  to  the  blush,  in  fact — 
by  reason  that  he  was  so  affable,  so  eloquent,  and 
“so  well  accentuated” — as  Barney  Gallagher 
described  the  delightful  Buffalonian  accent  that 
little  Dinny  had  conjured  up  for  the  part.  Dinny 
would  come  hopping  up  the  way,  descend  from 
an  imaginary  carriage  opposite  Barney’s  door, 
hop  down  to  the  door  and  politely  give  it  a crack 
with  his  crutch — upon  which  Barney  would 
emerge,  curtsey  like  a French  Count  and  politely 
inquire  who  had  the  honor  of  addressing  him. 
The  Lord  Mayor  of  Buffalo  then  introduced  him- 
self in  the  choice  language  cultivated  by  Lord 
Mayors.  Whereupon  Barney,  giving  him  a hearty 
Irish  cead  mile  failte  (hundred  thousand  wel- 
comes) politely  invited  him  “within  side  our  hum- 
ble risidence” — where  he  presented  him  to  Rosie, 
to  whom  the  Lord  Mayor  doffed  an  imaginary  silk 
hat  that  must  have  cost  at  least  ten  pounds.  You 
could  see  the  shine  of  it  dazzle  you,  so  realistic 
was  Dinny’s  acting. 

While  Rosie  prepared  the  usual  cup  of  tea, 
with  toast  and  eggs,  for  his  Lordship,  Barney 
proceeded  with  his  lines.  Toast  and  tea  were  al- 
ways real — and  therefore  a great  incentive  to  his 


io  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

Lordship  to  appear  in  his  role  early  and  often. 
Barney,  indeed,  thought  they  should  be  no  more 
solid  than  the  silk  hat.  But  Dinny  considered, 
very  emphatically,  that  the  real  tea,  eggs  and 
toast  were  indispensable  to  his  proper  feeling, 
and  filling,  the  part.  And,  indeed,  the  large- 
hearted  Rosie  considered  so  too.  Dinny  was  such 
a roaring  success  as  Lord  Mayor — especially  at 
the  table — that  Barney,  if  anyone  would  bet  with 
him,  wanted  to  wager  his  head  against  a ha’penny 
that  half  the  Lord  Mayors  in  America  couldn’t 
hold  a candle  to  Dinny  when  it  came  to  real  down- 
right brilliant  Lord  Mayoring,  He  could  never 
get  any  takers,  however.  For  Roisie  heartily 
agreed  with  Barney.  And  Dinny,  himself,  like- 
wise. 

At  times  when  Dinny  wasn’t  to  the  fore  to  im- 
personate his  Lordship,  Rosie,  who,  as  we  hinted 
had  a head-piece  on  her,  invented  a Lord  Mayor 
in  the  shape  of  a bog-oak  stump  which  Barney  had 
brought  in  to  burn.  Barney  preferred  the  bog- 
oak  Lord  Mayor — by  reason  he  could  talk  more 
collectedly  to  it  than  he  could  to  Dinny,  whose 
brilliancy  sometimes  dumbfounded  him.  More- 
over, it  never  smiled  at  him,  like  Dinny  used  to 
do  when  he  blundered. 

And,  sure,  if  Rosie  had  been  any  other  woman 
than  Rosie,  her  heart  would  have  been  just  broken 


THE  LORD  MAYOR  O’  BUFFALO  n 


with  this  man’s  blundering.  After  she’d  have  nine 
times  shown  him  the  correct  way  to  bow  and  ad- 
dress the  Lord  Mayor,  and  both  of  them  would 
feel  sure  he  was  letter-perfect  as  any  Prince,  he’d 
put  his  foot  in  it  the  tenth  time — make  a brose 
of  it,  as  Rosie  said — and  have  to  begin  all  over. 

“Ah,  Rosie,  darling,”  Barney  wrnuld  say  then, 
“ ’tis  as  brilliant  as  a bullock,  I am.  You’d  bet- 
ter give  me  up  as  a bad  case,  and  be  spokesman 
your  own  self.”  Rosie,  wonderful  woman  that 
she  was,  never  once  broke  her  temper  or  lost  her 
patience  with  him.  “No,  Barney,  a stor”  she’d 
say  encouragingly,  “it’s  grand  entirely  you’re  get- 
tin’  on.  If  you  keep  improvin’  at  the  same  rate, 
your  fine  manners  ’ill  make  the  Lord  Mayor  o’ 
Buffalo,  himself,  ashamed  for  his  own  middlin’ 
ones.  Try  it  again,  Barney.” 

“Meself  never  was  used  to  Lord  Mayors,” 
Barney  would  excuse  himself. 

“Better  late  than  never,  Barney,”  Rosie  would 
encourage  him.  “We’ll  break  you  in  this  time. 
And  for  the  rest  o’  your  life  meetin’  Lord 
Mayors  ’ill  come  as  natural  to  you  as  meetin’ 
your  breakfast.” 

So  there  could  be  no  mistake,  and  that  the  Lord 
Mayor  could  not  pass  by  without  knowing  just 
where  to  call,  Rosie  had  a letter  sent  to  him  at 
Omagh,  where,  the  papers  said,  he  was  to  spend 


12 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


the  day  before  reaching  Donegal — a letter  com- 
posed by  her  own  self  but  penned  by  Dinny,  in- 
forming the  Lord  Mayor  that  they  were  the 
father  and  mother  of  little  Susie  who  lived  in  the 
same  street  with  him  in  Buffalo  and  from  whom 
he  probably  had  some  messages — and  giving  him 
the  necessary  directions,  signs  and  tokens  of  their 
little  house,  and  its  situation,  so  that  he  could  not 
pass  them  by  mistake,  on  his  way  to  Father  Pat 
Gillogley. 

Neighbors,  of  course,  learnt  from  little  Dinny 
that  Barney  Gallagher  and  Rosie  were  expecting 
a call  from  no  less  than  the  Lord  Mayor  of  Buf- 
falo— and  that  big  doings  were  going  on  at 
Rosie’s  in  preparation.  Even  it  reached  the  ears 
of  Father  Pat  Gillogley — a man  whose  humor 
was  equaled  only  by  his  big-heartedness.  And 
when  Rosie,  on  the  day  before  his  coming,  went 
around  borrowing  from  the  neighbors  Mrs.  Mee- 
han’s napkins,  and  John  Quinn’s  fancy  cups  and 
saucers,  Mary  Quigly’s  two  silver  spoons,  Mrs. 
Donnelly’s  silver  fork,  and  Sally  Clary’s  two 
knives  of  silver  also — she,  being  human  after  all, 
couldn’t  help  showing  just  the  least  taste  in  the 
world  of  condescension.  For  a canonized  saint, 
even,  it  would  be  hard  to  let  the  chance  go  by. 
Out  of  Rosie’s  extraordinary  goodness  and  kind- 
ness, indeed,  she  showed  only  such  very  little  con- 


THE  LORD  MAYOR  O’  BUFFALO  13 

descension  that  the  neighbors  praised  her  un- 
stintedly— and  put  up  their  ungrudging  prayers 
for  a successful  visit  from  the  Lord  Mayor.  And 
she  thanked  them  just  as  earnestly  as  if  she 
thought  it  wouldn’t  be  a success  but  for  their 
prayers.  With  both  a smile  and  a glint  in  his  eye, 
Father  Pat  listened  to  the  neighbors’  wondering 
accounts  of  the  great  doings. 

The  big  day  itself  at  length  came — and  the 
hour.  At  the  last  minute,  Rosie,  General  in 
charge,  changed  the  plan  of  campaign.  It  might 
be. worse  etiquette  but  ’twas  better  Irish  for  them, 
instead  of  waiting  the  Lord  Mayor’s  knock,  to 
have  themselves  ready  on  the  road,  and  give  him 
cead  mile  failte  as  his  carriage  pulled  up.  Conse- 
quently, when,  after  a creel-full  of  trouble,  Rosie 
had  got  Barney  dressed  to  perfection  from  the 
crown  of  his  head  to  the  sole  of  his  foot,  and  fit 
to  meet  monarchs,  much  less  Lord  Mayors,  and 
herself  decked  out  in  her  best  also,  a table  spread 
to  gladden  a King,  tea-pot  hot  and  kettle  singing 
on  the  hob,  they  took  their  stand  on  the  road, 
within  view  of  knots  of  sympathetic  neighbors 
who  watched  from  the  hillsides — and  Rosie  filled 
up  the  waiting  time  putting  Barney  again  through 
his  speeches. 

At  long  last  the  carriage  swung  into  sight 
around  the  bend  of  the  road  with  such  a swish  and 


14 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


swirl  as  was  just  to  be  expected  from  the  car- 
riage of  a real  Lord  Mayor — temporarily  un- 
nerving Barney  and  filling  him  with  confusion.  It 
came  tearing  down  toward  them  like  the  railway 
trains  they’d  heard  tell  of  rushing  into  Dublin — 
never  slackened  its  pace  as  it  drew  near,  but  quick- 
ened if  anything.  At  this  Barney  began  making 
all  desperate  signs  and  shouts  to  the  driver  that 
this  was  the  place  to  stop,  while  Rosie  was  tug- 
ging Barney  by  the  coat-tails  to  save  him  from 
suicide — for  in  his  alarm  lest  the  Lord  Mayor 
shouldn’t  recognize  the  right  house,  and  stop, 
Barney  was  now  almost  prepared  to  throw  his 
own  body  under  the  wheels  to  trig  them.  The 
driver  just  looked  at  the  two  of  them  crossly,  and 
the  Lord  Mayor,  from  inside  the  carriage,  curi- 
ously— and  the  carriage  and  the  Lord  Mayor  tore 
past  them  and  were  soon  out  of  sight  around  the 
next  bend.  And  to  the  grief-stricken  Barney  and 
the  dumbfounded  Rosie,  all  the  hopes  in  the  world 
seemed  to  go  out  of  sight  with  them!  If  the 
catastrophe  needed  a crown,  it  was  supplied  by 
the  sincere  sympathy  of  the  neighbors. 

Silence  sat  between  them  over  their  once  happy 
hearth  all  that  night,  till,  drawing  on  bed-time, 
Rosie  at  length  said  soothingly,  “Never  mind, 
Barney  agra,  he’s  uppish  and  proud  like  the  Mac 
Diarmids  who  made  a hundred  and  fifty  pound  out 


THE  LORD  MAYOR  O’  BUFFALO  15 

of  the  fish  yon  time  and  would  never  notice  poor 
people  no  more.” 

“That’s  just  the  matter  with  the  man,”  said 
Barney,  more  in  sorrow  than  anger. 

And  then  they  knelt  to  a very  fervent  rosary, 
from  which  when  they  arose,  they  had  forgiven 
the  man  with  all  their  hearts.  And  blotted  him 
from  their  memory — they  thought. 

It  was  the  next  afternoon,  when  Barney  was 
called  in  haste  from  his  potato  weeding  in  the 
Stoney  Park — to  find,  to  his  consternation,  when 
he  entered  the  house,  Father  Pat  and  the  Lord 
Mayor  o’  Buffalo,  taking  tea  with  Rosie ! — and  he 
chatting  with  her  like  a human  being! 

Barney,  flustered  with  surprise  and  joy,  be- 
gan making  his  different  bows  to  the  Lord  Mayor, 
and,  higgledy-piggledy,  mixing  up  scraps  from  all 
his  speeches — till  Rosie,  by  a brave  tug  at  his 
coat-tails,  landed  him  in  a straw-bottomed  chair 
where  she  had  to  pin  him  for  a couple  of  minutes 
till  he  got  partial  presence  of  mind  again. 

The  Lord  Mayor  said  he  understood  that  he 
had  the  honor  of  living  on  the  same  street  in 
Buffalo  with  their  little  daughter — and  apologized 
because,  partly  from  illness  and  partly  from  busi- 
ness, he  didn’t  know  even  the  people  in  his  own 
street  as  a neighbor  should. 

Before  Rosie  could  stop  him,  Barney  had  ex- 


i6 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


pressed  his  amazement  that  the  gentleman 
should  not  know  Shusie — little  Shusie  of  the  fair 
hair,  who  is  breaking  her  heart  for  the  sight  of 
home  again — little  Shusie  who,  once  seen,  was 
never  forgotten.  Did  he  really  mean  to  say  he 
didn’t  know  their  wee  Shusie?  Own  sister  to 
Johnny  and  Patsy — whom  the  Lord  Mayor  must, 
of  course,  know — the  two  boys  who  were  striving 
to  get  on  the  Buffalo  police. 

The  Lord  Mayor  sorrowfully  confessed  he 
didn’t  even  know  Johnny  and  Patsy — and  it  was 
only  Rosie’s  shaking  her  head  and  making  a face 
at  Barney  that  prevented  Barney  from  blundering 
out  the  words  that  were  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue, 
“Well,  what  kind  of  a quare  sort  of  a Lord 
Mayor  are  ye,  anyhow?”  But  if  Rosie  stopped 
his  verbal  expression,  the  hopeless  head-shake  with 
which  Barney  subsided,  expressed  his  mind  on  the 
subject  to  the  Lord  Mayor  far  more  eloquently 
than  beggarly  words  ever  could.  And  drew  from 
the  Lord  Mayor  the  shame-faced  confession  that 
he  certainly  didn’t  know  as  well  as  he  should,  half 
the  good  people  he  was  Lord  Mayoring  over. 
But,  now  that  his  eyes  were  opened,  he  was  going 
to  mend  his  ways  when  he  went  back. 

An  encouraging  nod  of  Barney’s  head  showed 
the  Lord  Mayor  that  his  good  resolution  brought 
him  both  forgiveness  and  approbation. 


THE  LORD  MAYOR  O’  BUFFALO  17 

The  very  first  acquaintance  he  was  going  to 
cultivate  was  Susie — and  to  cure  her  homesick- 
ness, he  would  send  her  in  the  service  of  a family 
that  was  coming  to  spend  the  long  beautiful  sum- 
mer in  Ireland. 

God  bliss  him ! — most  fervently  in  one  voice 
from  both  Rosie  and  Barney. 

— And  the  Buffalo  police  force,  for  its  greater 
efficiency,  should  and  must  immediately  have  the 
services  of  the  sons  of  such  a fine  father  and 
mother. 

To  give  vent  to  the  cumulative  joy  that  swelled 
her  heart,  Rosie  could  find  no  fitting  words.  She 
just  tried  to  speak,  but  ignominiously  failed — and 
buried  her  face  in  her  handkerchief.  Barney  was 
worse  than  his  wife. 

The  Lord  Mayor  and  Father  Pat,  carrying  two 
pleased  hearts  away  from  Barney  Gallagher’s 
thatched  cottage,  left  two  exalted  hearts  behind. 

The  marveling  neighbors  were  watching  from 
the  hillsides. 


II 


THE  WIDOW  MEEHAN’S  CASSIMEER  SHAWL 
ATHER  PAT,  when  he  was  admirin’  it, 


called  it,  I believe,  a Cashmere  shawl;  but 


as  Widow  Meehan  owned  it,  she  had  the 
best  right  to  know;  and  she  called  it  a Cassimeer. 

There  isn’t  any  mistake  about  it,  it  was  a de- 
light of  a shawl;  and  every  woman  from  the  top 
of  the  parish  to  the  foot  of  it  consented  as  much 
when  they  rolled  their  eyes  and  wished  to  Heaven 
that  Providence  had  sent  them  such  another. 

But  it  wasn’t  Providence  who  sent  it  to  Mrs. 
Meehan  at  all  at  all.  It  was  Partholan  McCue 
who  fetched  it  home  from  America  to  her,  a pres- 
ent from  her  gran’-niece  Annie  in  Philadelphy; 
for  poor  Annie,  God  bless  her,  never  forgot  little 
kindnesses  to  the  woman  who  reared  her.  Many’s 
the  pound  note  she  sent  home  to  her  out  of  her 
little  earnin’ s from  the  stranger. 

Mrs.  Meehan,  when  she  got  this  present,  was 
as  happy  as  a mavish  in  May  and  as  proud  as  a 
lord’s  lady.  Half  of  the  parish  thronged  to  see 
the  shawl,  and  Mrs.  Meehan  herself  carried  it 


18 


WIDOW  MEEHAN  S SHAWL  19 

to  the  other  half;  and  the  poor  woman  near  lost 
her  sleep  over  It. 

She  was  mortial  fond  of  gossip  and  going 
about,  anyhow,  was  the  Widow  Meehan. 

But  she  usually  did  her  visitin’  in  raison  and 
in  saison — till  the  Cassimeer  came.  Then  her 
visitin’,  as  ye  may  well  suppose,  knew  neither 
saison  or  raison.  And  when  her  one  son,  Barney 
(known  as  Barney  Brian) — the  most  mischievous 
vagabond  the  parish  ever  knew — who  remained  at 
home  with  her,  working  for  whomsoever  em- 
ployed him,  and  holding  the  roof  over  them  both, 
would  come  in  from  Johnnie  Durneen’s  Nor’-aist 
Park  at  dinner-time,  ravenous  with  the  fair  dint 
of  the  hunger,  and  find  the  hearth  black,  and 
hear  that  his  mother  was  doin’  padrole  with  her 
Cassimeer  in  the  upper  end  of  the  parish,  Barney, 
poor  boy,  began  to  suspicion  that  the  same  Cassi- 
meer was  going  to  be  a sore  trial  to  his  temper; 
and  he  wished  in  his  heart  that  it  was  an  arm- 
chair poor  Annie  had  sent  his  mother. 

“I  wish  to  goodness,”  Barney  Brian  said, 
“there  would  come  a dacent  thief  into  the  coun- 
try.” 

“Musha,  for  what,  Barney!”  said  his  mother. 

“Just,  mother,”  says  Barney,  “that  he  might 
steal  your  Cassimeer  shawl.” 


20 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


“Arrah,  Barney  boy,  but  it’s  the  bad  heart  ye 
have.” 

“If  you,  mother,”  says  Barney,  says  he,  “come 
in  from  a hard  mornin’s  work  behind  a spade,  and 
the  stomach  of  ye  cryin’  for  its  dinner,  and  that 
ye  found  neither  trace  nor  track  of  dinner  afore 
ye,  but  found  me  who  should  have  it  waiting, 
piping  hot  for  ye,  gone  sthravaguin’  off  to  the 
other  end  of  the  parish  to  show  the  neighbours  a 
new  pair  of  Cassimeer  trousers  (suppose)  that 
me  cousin  Annie  had  sent  me,  a present  from  the 
States — I’m  thinkin’  your  heart  would  take  sides 
with  your  stomach,  and  not  wish  very  well  to  my 
Cassimeer  breeches.  ...  I wish  to  goodness, 
mother,  it  was  a pot  and  pot-stick  Annie  had  sent 
ye  home.” 

And  the  widow  would  shake  her  head,  and  turn 
up  her  eyes  at  this,  and  say,  “Well,  may  the  Lord 
forgive  ye,  Barney  Brian,  for  throwin’  slights  on 
my  beautiful  Cassimeer  shawl,  like  that  1” 

And  Barney  Brian  ’ud  reply,  “Well,  mother,  if 
I never  have  to  ask  the  Lord’s  forgiveness  for 
greater,  I’ll  not  trimble  much  when  I’m  awaitin’ 
on”  (about  to  die) . 

The  first  day  poor  Barney  lost  his  dinner  over 
the  Cassimeer,  he  didn’t  take  it  so  badly  at  all  in 
his  heart.  Nor  the  second  day,  nor  third  day 
either.  But  when  he  met  with  the  same  trial  five 


WIDOW  MEEHAN’S  SHAWL 


21 


times  inside  of  one  week,  faith!  Barney  got  rum- 
buncktious.  He  very  well  thought  that  it  was 
fitter  for  his  mother  to  be  bendin’  over  the  dinner- 
pot  than  padrollin’  the  parish  with  the  bottom  of 
the  trunk  on  her  back;  he  relieved  his  mind  to  her 
in  a kindly  way — for  Barney  Brian  was  never  the 
boy  to  turn  the  ill  word  on  his  own  mother — but 
very  seriously;  for  he  was  detarmined  that,  Cas- 
simeer or  no  Cassimeer,  he  wasn’t  to  be  done  out 
of  his  dinner  for  the  time  to  come.  “For  I used 
to  admire  and  think  it  a handsome  shawl  when  it 
come  first,  mother.  But  I now  see  that  the  beauty 
a man  sees  in  a thing  depends  entirely  on  the  state 
of  his  stomach.  Every  time,  now,  that  I miss 
another  dinner  over  it,  that  shawl  is  getting  to 
look  more  and  more  like  a badly  patched  pratie- 
bag.” 

And  “Barney,  Barney  I”  says  she,  “are  ye  not 
afeerd  of  a judgment  failin’  from  Heaven  on  ye 
— to  talk  that  way  of  my  grand  Cassimeer?” 

“I’m  afeerd  only,”  says  Barney  back  to  her — 
“afeerd  only,  mother,  that  I should  apologize  to 
the  pratie-bag.  It  brings  me  a dinner;  and  the 
Cassimeer  loses  me  one.  And  I’m  afeerd,  more- 
over, mother  darlin’,  that  if  ye  don’t  hide  the  same 
Cassimeer  under  the  lowermost  article  in  the 
clothes-chist,  and  then  put  a good  strong  padlock 
on  the  chist,  I’ll  be  tempted  to  do  something  des- 


22 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


perate  to  it.”  It’s  in  a fright  of  a temper  Barney, 
the  soul,  was:  and,  indeed  small  wonder  for 
that. 

And  whenever  Barney  got  vexed  like  this,  the 
Widow  Meehan  always  found  it  a good  plan  to 
either  coax  him  to  go  out  up  the  hill  and  lei  the 
temper  blow  off  him,  or  else  to  stroll  out  herself, 
till  the  boy  would  have  simmered  down.  And  this 
time  she  sayed,  says  she,  “Well  Barney  a bhua- 
chaill,  you’re  past  yourself  just  now,  and  so  I’m 
steppin’  without,  till  you  go  past  the  boil.” 

But  the  widow  hadn’t  reached  the  door  when 
she  halted  up  sudden,  and  she  says  all  in  a fright : 
“In  the  name  of  Peter,  Barney  my  heart,  who  do 
you  think  is  crossin’  Neil  Dinneen’s  mearin’ 
below?” 

“I  don’t  know,  mother,”  says  Barney,  says  he, 
shortly  enough,  “nor  what’s  more — not  giving  you 
a short  answer — do  I care.” 

The  widow  was  too  flurried  to  mind  Barney’s 
shortness.  Says  she:  “Of  all  the  unwelcome 
women  this  side  of  Kingdom-come,  it’s  no  other 
than  your  poor  father — may  God  be  merciful  to 
him! — your  poor  father’s  Cousin  Bid  from  the 
Oiieigh  parish.  She  has  trolloped  over  ten  miles 
of  country  this  morning,  and  is  making,  sure 
enough,  for  the  Dhrimholme  parish,  on  a visit  to 
her  CJncle  Andy.  Barney  a chara , I’ll  close  me- 


WIDOW  MEEHAN’S  SHAWL  23 

self  into  the  room  here,  and  you’ll  say  I’m  gone 
over  to  help  to  lay  out  Peggy  Carney,  of  the  Alt- 
beag,  that  died  this  morning.  I would  as  soon 
meet  the  scarlet  faiver  as  your  father’s  Cousin 
Bid,  for  she’s  an  ill-tongued,  ill-hearted,  bitter  pill 
of  a woman — and  it  goes  sore  against  the  grain 
of  me  to  have  to  show  her  the  fair  face,  as  I 
always  do;  and  though  she  shows  me  the  fair 
face,  too,  I always  feel  that  she’s  cuttin’  me 
throat  inside  her  heart,  while  she’s  speakin’  me 
smooth  and  sweet.  I’ll  just  step  inside  the  room- 
door  here  till  she’s  gone  again.” 

“Mother,”  says  Barney,  says  he,  “if  it’s  your 
notion  that  I’m  goin’  to  sin  me  soul  tellin’  lies 
for  you  to  my  father’s  Cousin  Bid,  or  to  anywan 
else,  while  you  listen  from  behind  the  doore, 
you’re  laborin’  under  a very  great  mistake  en- 
tirely, let  me  tell  you.  If  you  want  anywan  to 
tell  lies  for  ye,  mother,  just  stay  out  here  and  tell 
them  yourself.” 

“Do  as  your  mother  tells  ye,  Barney  Brian,” 
was  all  she  said,  and  stepped  in  behind  the  room- 
door,  and  closed  it.  But  she  opened  it  again  to 
put  out  her  head,  and  call  under  her  breath, 
“And,  Barney,  hang  up  that  Cassimeer  where  that 
woman  ’ill  be  sure  to  see  it.” 

In  faith,  it  was  small  enough  was  the  likin’  even 
Barney  had  ever  for  his  father’s  Cousin  Bi<^,  and 


24 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


it  was  less  still  was  his  likin’  for  her  since,  on  the 
Candlemas  twelvemonth  afore,  she  had  carried 
her  ill-heart  and  bad  tongue  over  to  Derryalt, 
where  he  was  coortin’,  and  set  purty  wee  Mary 
Kennedy’s  people  again’  him.  And  he  then  prom- 
ised if  it  should  ever  come  his  way  to  do  his 
father’s  Cousin  Bid  an  ill  turn,  he’d  think  three 
times  afore  he’d  allow  his  conscience  to  hold  him. 

When  his  fathers  Cousin  Bid  stepped  over  the 
threshel,  with  a wee  bunch  of  greeneries  atween 
her  fingers  and  a ready  “God  save  all  here!”  on 
her  tongue,  Barney,  who  was  sittin’  by  the  fire 
with  his  back  to  the  door,  just  turned  his  head 
slow,  looked  her  up  and  down,  and  then  give  her 
a nod.  He  pointed  to  a chair,  without  puttin’  a 
move  out  of  himself:  and  Bid,  a good  bit  mysti- 
fied, went  and  sat  down  on  it.  And  Barney  begun 
lookin’  into  the  fire. 

“ Maise , Barney,”  says  she,  “what’s  makin’  you 
look  so  mortal  glum?  or  what’s  the  matter  with 
ye,  at  all  at  all?” 

Then  Barney  turned  his  eyes  again  on  her,  and 
he  says  sorrowfully — 

“Bridget  Managhan,  ye  ought  to  feel  sore 
ashamed  of  yourself.” 

“And  for  why,  Barney  Brian?”  says  Bid,  says 
she,  bridling. 


WIDOW  MEEHAN’S  SHAWL  25 

“Bridget  Managhan,”  says  Barney,  says  he,  re- 
proachfully, “ye  add  insult  to  injury.” 

Bid  was  both  mixed  and  mystified.  Says  she — 
“For  goodness’  sake,  Barney  Brian,  tell  me 
what  are  ye  dhrivin’  at,  anyhow?” 

Barney  put  up  one  hand  to  one  eye  and,  as  it 
seemed  to  the  consternated  Bid,  rubbed  away  a 
tear;  and  he  then  put  up  another  hand  to  the 
other  eye,  and  rubbed  away  another  tear. 

“Bridget  Managhan,”  says  he  then,  turnin’ 
hurtin’  eyes  on  her — “Bridget  Managhan,”  says 
he,  “ye  never  came  anear  either  the  wake  or  the 
funeral,  and  you’re  the  last  in  the  worl’  I would 
have  expected  such  a slight  from.  I say  ye  ought 
to  feel  sore  ashamed  of  yourself.” 

“The  wake!”  says  Bid,  all  open-mouthed.  “And 
the  funeral !”  says  she,  with  the  eyes  of  her 
startin’. 

“The  wake,”  says  Barney,  says  he,  solemn, 
“and  the  funeral — never  came  anear  one  or  the 
other  of  them,  and  never  sent  as  much  as  a 
message.  I say,  how  can  ye  show  your  face  in 
this  house — and  not  a blush  on  it  either?” 

“For  the  Lord’s  sake,  Barney  Brian,”  says 
Bridget,  says  she,  “will  ye  tell  me  at  oncet  what 
wake  ye’re  talkin’  of,  and  what  funeral?” 

Poor  Barney  looked  into  the  fire,  and,  says  he, 
with  a blurt,  “me  poor  mother’s  wake,  of  course.. 


26 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


and  funeral — may  God  be  merciful  to  her  soul! 
for  it’s  she  was  the  good  mother  to  me,  anyhow 
— barrin’  at  times.” 

“Barney,  Barney  Brian,  a mhic,”  says  she,  all 
alarmed,  “ye  don’t  railly  mean  to  tell  me  that  your 
mother’s  dead?” 

“Ay,  dead,  poor  woman,”  says  Barney,  says  he, 
wipin’  his  eyes  with  both  his  sleeves — “dead,  and 
the  green  quilt  over  her.  Don’t  try  for  to  tell  me, 
Bridget  Managhan,”  says  he,  “that  ye  didn’t 
hear  it  and  know  all  about  it.  Don’t  try  for  to 
tell  me  suchan  a story — for  I’ll  not  take  it  in.” 

“God  rest  her,  poor  woman!”  says  Bid  first. 
And  then  says  she:  “Barney  Brian,  may  I never 
move  from  the  ground  I’m  sittin’  on,  or  never  ate 
the  bread  of  corn  again,  if  I’m  not  now  in  the 
first  place  I ever  heard  tale,  tidin’s,  cr  whisper, 
of  your  poor  mother’s  daith.” 

“Och,  och!”  says  Barney,  says  he,  as  busy  as 
he  could  be  with  the  troubles  of  his  own  mind. 

“Heaven  help  ye  and  support  ye  in  your  trouble, 
poor  soul!”  says  she.  “I  knew,”  says  she,  “for 
I heerd  it  from  my  Uncle  Andy  at  the  fair  of  the 
Purt  (last  Chewsday  was  a month)  that  your  poor 
mother  was  complainin’  a bit;  but  a word  further 
I never  heerd.  Meself  thought  it  was  only  the 
oul’  complaint  of  the  win’  about  the  heart  was 


WIDOW  MEEHAN’S  SHAWL  27 

troublin’  her,  and  that  she’d  work  it  off  in  a couple 
of  days.  What  was  it  took  her?” 

“Oh,  just  the  win’  about  the  heart — her  oul’ 
complaint.  It  struck  her  first  (this  last  time)  of  a 
Chewsday  night,  just  as  she  was  milkin’  the  bran- 
net  cow.  Meself  give  her  a hot  dhrink  with  plenty 
of  pepper  in  it,  and  put  her  to  bed,  thinkin’  she 
would  be  well  again,  and  as  sound  as  a bell,  in  the 
mornin’.  But  / avoir!  she  never  knew  aise  again. 
It  was  worse  she  was,  instead  of  better,  in  the 
mornin’.  The  win’  was  all  round  her  heart;  she 
could  feel  it  rollin’  and  rollin’  about  like  a large 
pittatie ; and  it  gathered  and  gathered  till  it  was 
the  size  of  your  head  afore  the  night  come;  and 
next  mornin’  it  was  the  size  of  a hand-shaking  of 
hay;  and  from  that  on  we  knew  there  wasn’t  any 
hope  for  her.  We  did  all  we  could,  and  Molly 
Carribin  of  Kilraine  tried  five  cures  on  her;  but  it 
was  only  worse  she  got.  Father  Pat,  God  bliss 
him,  we  had  to  rouse  him  out  of  his  bed  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  a Sathurday  night,  and  he 
come  and  give  her  the  last  rites,  and  bid  her  God- 
speed on  the  long  journey.  And  in  the  early  hours 
of  Sunday  mornin’,  just  near  about  the  screek  o’ 
day,  she — she” — poor  Barney  he  broke  down  here 
and  blubbered — “she  bid  me  good-bye,  and  asked 
for  God  to  bliss  me  and  watch  over  me;  and — 
and — then  she  w-w-went  away  with  herself.  Booh- 


28  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

hooh!”  And  poor  Barney,  the  soul,  blurted  and 
cried. 

“ Maise , Barney,”  says  Bid,  says  she;  “poor 
soul,  I’m  sorry  from  my  heart  for  your  trouble ! 
And  to  think  that  I should  never  have  heerd  one 
word  of  it.” 

“It  was  a splendid  wake,”  says  Barney,  says  he, 
more  cheerily  and  proudly-like,  “a  splendid  wake 
and  a grand  funeral.  At  the  wake  the  house  was 
filled  to  the  doores;  and  at  the  funeral  there  was 
half  a mile  of  ground,  and  ye  couldn’t  drop  a 
pin  on  it  but  it  would  fall  on  someone’s  head.” 

“A  proud  day  for  ye,  Barney,”  says  Bid. 

“Yes,”  says  Barney.  “But  that  isn’t  what  I 
have  wanted  to  tell  ye.  . . . Are  ye  listenin’  to 
me,  Bid  Managhan?” 

“I’m  listenin’  as  hard  as  I can,”  says  Bid,  says 
she,  leanin’  forrid. 

“My  mother,  my  poor  mother  (may  Heaven 
be  her  bed ! ) , she — she — well,  everyone  knows 
she  had  a bit  of  a temper  of  her  own!” 

Bid  Managhan  she  gave  a snort  at  this,  and 
then  she  took  a snuff  out  of  the  snuff-box.  And 
then,  says  she,  “There’s  few  ’ud  deny  that.” 

“A  temper  she  had,”  says  Barney,  says  he, 
“and  a tongue.” 

“And  a tongue — yis,”  says  Bid,  says  she, 
clickin’  down  the  lid  on  her  snuff-box  with  venom. 


WIDOW  MEEHAN’S  SHAWL  29 

“Did  I hear  any  noise  in  that  room  below?”  says 
she  then,  hasty,  and  lookin’  hard  at  the  closed 
room-door.  And  sure  enough  there  had  come 
from  the  room  something  strangely  like  a 
“Hagh!”  from  atween  clenched  teeth. 

“Maybe,  indeed,  ye  did,”  says  Barney,  says 
he,  and  he  not  one  bit  discommoded,  “for  me  poor 
calf,  poor  thing,  got  the  elf-shot  the  day  afore 
yesterday,  and  for  heat’s  sake  and  comfort,  I took 
it  and  put  it  intil  the  room;  and  it  breathes  hard 
sometimes.  . . . But  as  I was  sayin’,”  says  he, 
“though  the  poor  woman  is  now  dead,  and  we 
should  maybe  leave  her  wee  faults  in  the  grave 
with  her.  . . . That  calf  is  breathin’  hard;  it’s  a 
painful  complaint  is  the  elf-shot  . . . leave  her 
wee  faults  in  the  grave  with  her,”  says  he;  “still 
we  can’t  deny  at  all  at  all  that  she  had  her  little 
share  of  faults,  like  the  rest  of  us — and  maybe  a 
thrifle  more.” 

“Ay,  and  maybe  a thrifle  more,”  says  Bid,  says 
she,  with  great  satisfaction  entirely,  near  amost 
smackin’  her  lips  over  it. 

“The  poor  woman’s  dead  and  gone,”  says  Bar- 
ney, “and  only  for  that  I might  go  further — 
though  I am  her  own  son — and  say  that  she  might 
aisily  ha’  been  a better-hearted  and  candider 
friend  to  some  people — yourself  for  one,”  says  he. 

Bid,  she  felt  mightly  encouraged  by  the  tone  of 


3o 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


Barney’s  remarks.  She  gave  another  snort.  “The 
poor  woman’s  dead,  and  gone  to  her  reckonin’,” 
says  she;  “and  only  for  that  I might  go  further 
and  say  that  she  was  as  bitter-tongued  a woman 
as  ever  stepped  in  shoe-leather,  and ” 

“Go  on,”  says  Barney,  says  he.  “Don’t  mind; 
it’s  that  calf.” 

“And  only  she’s  dead  and  gone,”  says  she,  “and 
I hope  got  forgiveness  from  the  Lord — only  for 
that,”  says  she,  “I  would  say  of  her  that  I’d  prefer 
gettin’  a process  any  day  to  meetin’  her.  For, 
though  I knew  she  would  cut  my  throat,  if  she 
could,  with  one  smile,  myself  had  to  meet  her  with 
a fair  face  and  smile  back  at  her.  . . . That  calf 
of  yours  must  be  in  sore  throuble,  Barney.  . . . 
And  now  there’s  the  solemn  sacred  truth  to  ye. 
And  only  the  poor  woman’s  dead  and  gone — and 
forgiven,  I hope — I could  say  all  that  of  her — 
and  more.  And  more.” 

“I  know  it,”  says  Barney,  shaking  his  head  sor- 
rowful-like. “I  know  it,”  says  he.  “Sure,  I only 
know  it  too  well — to  me  own  pain.  But  you’ll  be 
rejoiced  in  the  inside  of  your  heart,  Bid  Mana- 
ghan,  to  hear  what’s  the  news  I have  for  ye,  and 
that  I’ve  been  cornin’  to.  My  mother,  poor  wo- 
man, had  her  eyes  opened  to  her  little  faults  afore 
she  died,”  says  he. 

“Indeed!”  says  Bid,  says  she,  surprised. 


WIDOW  MEEHAN’S  SHAWL  31 

“Indeed,”  says  Barney.  “More  especially  had 
she  her  eyes  opened — by  some  stroke  of  grace — 
to  her  onchristian  traitment  of  you,  and  . . . Bad 
snuff  to  that  calf,  but  it’s  unmannerly  . . . and, 
I say,  died  repentant,  and  prayin’  to  have  your 
forgiveness.” 

Says  Bid,  triumphant,  “I’m  a delighted  woman 
to  hear  it.  And — and — I suppose  I must  grant 
forgiveness  to  her — as  she’s  dead,”  says  she. 

“It’s  good  of  ye — troth,  it’s  good  of  ye,  Bid,” 
says  Barney,  says  he;  “and  myself  told  her  to  die 
comforted,  for  that  Bid  Managhan  was  always 
a generous  woman  and  a forgivin’  one.” 

Bid  just  lowered  her  head  to  this. 

“And,  Bid,”  says  Barney,  “me  poor  mother 
considered  she  owed  ye  restitution  for  all  the  ill 
things  she  ever  sayed  of  ye  behind  your  back,” 
says  he. 

“I’m  glad  to  hear  that  the  poor  woman  got 
into  a Christian  state  of  mind — even  on  her  death- 
bed,” says  Bid,  says  she. 

Barney  got  up,  and  went  over  to  the  dresser; 
and  stooping  under  it,  he  drew  out  a pair  of  grand 
new  spring-side  boots  that  Micky  Gallagher  the 
shoemaker  had  only  fetched  home  the  night 
afore;  and  he  fetched  them  over  and  left  them 
down  at  Bid  Managhan’s  feet. 

“She  said,”  said  he,  as  he  left  them  down,  “ ‘It 


32 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


is  my  daith-bed  desire  that  my  husband’s  Cousin 
Bid  from  the  Oileigh  parish  should  get  my  pair 
of  new  boots  in  part  token  of  restitution  for 
wrongs  done  her,’ — So  Bid,  there  ye  are,”  says 
he. 

Poor  Bid  she  opened  her  eyes  with  wonder  and 
delight,  and  says  she,  “Well,  may  God  grant 
speedy  forgiveness  to  the  poor  woman,  and  bring 
her  straight  to  Heaven  without  e’er  a look-in  upon 
Purgatory  good  or  bad.  I think,”  says  she,  be- 
ginnin’  without  any  more  delay  to  take  off  her  the 
boots  she  had  on  her — “I  think,”  says  she,  “as 
these  ould  boots  I have  on  me  aren’t  hardly  dai- 
cent  enough  to  go  visitin’  at  my  Uncle  Andy’s 
in,  I think  I’ll  just  put  the  new  ones  on  me ” 

“Bad  snuff,  say  I again,  to  that  calf. — Yis, 
surely,  Bid,  wear  them  on  ye  to  your  Uncle 
Andy’s,”  says  Barney,  says  he. 

“Just  see  to  that  now,  how  parfect  they  fit  me,” 
says  Bid,  says  she,  steppin’  out  in  them  across  the 
floor,  and  tryin’  to  see  them  herself  and  to  show 
them  to  Barney  at  the  same  time.  “They  lie  like 
a pair  of  gloves,  Barney,”  says  she. 

“One  ’ud  think,”  says  Barney,  “that  Micky 
Gallagher  used  your  own  foot  for  a last,”  says  he. 

“It’s  prayin’  for  your  kind  mother’s  soul  I’ll 
be,”  says  she,  “every  time  ever  I put  out  my  foot  in 
them.” 


WIDOW  MEEHAN’S  SHAWL  33 

“Thanky,  Bid;  thanky,”  says  Barney.  “She’ll 
be  watchin’  ye,  and  hearin’  to  ye  out  of  Heaven; 
and  it’s  herself  ’ll  be  the  delighted  woman  to  see 
that  the  brogues  is  so  nate  to  your  feet.” 

“May  the  delights  of  Heaven  be  with  her  al- 
ways,” says  Bid  from  the  depths  of  her  heart. 
“If  there’s  wan  woman  more  nor  another  who  de- 
sarved  Heaven,  for  her  right-livin’  ways,  and  her 
good  and  charitable  heart,  myself  doesn’t  know 
who  that  woman  was,  if  it  wasn’t  your  mother,” 
says  she.  “And,”  says  she,  “Barney,  I’d  advise 
ye  to  look  after  that  calf,  for  it’s  sufferin’  sore. 
Did  ye  hear  that  groan  out  of  it?”  says  she. 

“Thanky,  thanky  kindly,  Bid,  for  your  nice 
words. — Och!  yes,  I’m  goin’  to  doctor  the  calf;  I 
sent  wee  Johnnie  Eamon  over  the  hill  an  hour  ago 
for  Neddy  Pat  Ward,  the  cow-doctor.  He’ll  soon 
be  here,  and  he’ll  leave  the  calf  better  than  new 
again,”  says  he. 

“I’m  intendin’,”  says  Bid,  says  she,  “to  call 
round  by  the  graveyard,  and  say  the  rosary  over 
your  poor  mother.  God  rest  the  good  woman! 
Barney  a bhuachaill,  did  ye  ever  in  all  your  born 
days  see  a better  fit  anyhow?”  And  Bid  was 
walkin’  the  floor  and  holdin’  up  her  skirts. 

“One  would  think  they  grew  on  your  feet,  Bid,” 
says  Barney.  “But  that  isn’t  all.  My  poor  mother 
sayed,  moreover,  ‘It  is  my  last  desire  and  request 


34 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


that  my  late  husband’s  cousin,  Bid  Managhan, 
should,  as  a slight  token  of  restitution  for  the  evil 
I have  wrongfully  done  her  in  my  heart,  have  my 
best  new  linsey-woolsey  skirt  which  hangs  in  the 
corner,  over  the  out-shot  bed,’  and  accordin’ly,” 
says  Barney,  getting  up  and  stretching  to  the  cor- 
ner over  the  out-shot  bed,  and  reaching  down  his 
mother’s  lovely  brown  linsey-woolsey  skirt  to  the 
astonished  Bid — “Just  slip  it  on  ye  over  your  own 
skirt,  Bid,”  says  he;  “it’ll  be  the  handiest  way  of 
carryin’  it.” 

Poor  Bid.  She  couldn’t  speak  for  a full  minute 
with  the  downright  dint  of  the  astonishment : only 
just  hold  out  the  skirt  in  her  hand,  as  far  away 
from  her  as  she  could,  and  gaze  at  it. 

And  when  she  come  to  her  speeches,  “Maise, 
may  all  the  angels  and  saints  and  holy  pathriots,” 
says  she,  “unite  together  in  carryin’  your  poor 
blessed  and  pious  mother,  body  and  soul,  str’ight' 
to  Heaven’s  hall-door!” 

“Bad  snuff  say  I again  to  that  calf,”  says  Bar- 
ney, says  he,  “with  his  groanin’  and  gruntin’  there; 
he  has  no  more  manners  nor  breedin’  than  if  he 
never  was  brought  up  about  a Christian  house.” 

“Restitution!”  says  Bid,  say  she,  “for  evil  done 
me  in  her  heart!  It  was  surely  the  ravin’  of  daith 
that  must  ’a’  been  on  the  poor  woman:  for  after 
all  the  pious  and  heavenly  thoughts  with  which 


WIDOW  MEEHAN’S  SHAWL  35 

the  poor  bliss’d  woman’s  heart  was  crivanned, 
there  wasn’t  room  for  a midge  to  wink  one  of  its 
eyes.  Restitution,  inagh!” 

“Oh,  she  wasn’t  by  any  means  a bad-hearted 
woman,  me  mother,”  says  Barney  modestly;  “nor, 
though  I say  it  who  maybe  shouldn’t,  was  she  a 
woman  given  to  either  ill-tongue  or  ill-temper, 
or  to  thinkin’  bad  of  any  mortial  under  the  sun,” 
says  he. 

“Ill-tongue  or  ill-temper!”  says  Bid  with  hot 
indignation  as  she  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor 
and  slipped  the  linsey-woolsey  over  her  head ; “I 
would  like  to  see  the  individial  who’d  even  to  your 
saintly  souled  mother,  ill-tongue,  ill-thought,  or 
ill-temper.  I’d  like,  I say,  to  see  that  individial — 
that  impident  and  lying  individial!”  says  Bid, 
shaking  her  fist  at  the  air  and  grindin’  her  teeth. 
“Barney,”  says  she,  “I’ll  be  steppin’  on  for  Uncle 
Andy’s.  I’ll  look  a whole  swell  in  such  a skirt 
and  boots.  Uncle  Andy’s  people  ’ill  not  know  me 
at  all  at  all.  I’m  goin’  to  call  round  by  the  grave- 
yard, Barney,  to  say  two  rosaries  for  the  repose 
of  your  bliss’d  mother’s  soul.” 

“I’ll  be  for  ever  thankful  to  ye,”  says  Barney, 
says  he. 

“Don’t  say  thanks,  Barney  Brian,”  says  Bid, 
says  she,  solemn,  “if  ye  don’t  want  to  insult  me.” 
“And  as  for  me  poor  mother  lookin’  down  at  ye 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


36 

from  the  threshel  of  heaven,  she’ll  pour  blissin’s 
back  upon  ye  till  ye’re  soaked  to  the  skin  with 
them  and  wade  home  wetshod.  But,  Bid,  through 
me  poor  departed  mother’s  grace,  ye’re  goin’  to 
be  a still  bigger  swell  yet,  afore  ye  start  for  your 
Uncle  Andy’s.” 

“What!”  says  Bid,  says  she.  “Ye  don’t  surely 
mane  for  to  say ” 

“I  mane,”  says  Barney,  says  he,  “for  to  say 
nothing  only  this — me  poor  mother,  God  rest 
her ” 

“Amen,  amen,  with  all  my  heart  and  soul,”  says 
Bid. 

“ — Says,”  says  Barney,  “ ‘Likewise,  to  my 
late  husband’s  dearly  beloved  cousin,  and  my  good 
and  sincere  friend,  Bridget  Managhan  of  the  Oil- 
eigh,  I do  hereby  give,  laive,  and  bequaith  my 
bee-utiful  Cassimeer  shawl.’  ” 

There  suddenly  come  a groan  from  the  room 
that  made  Bid  Managhan  start  in  the  sait  she  sat 
upon. 

“God  help  us,  and  His  blissin’  be  about  us  all, 
day  and  night,”  says  Bid,  says  she,  cuttin’  the  sign 
of  the  Cross;  “but  doesn’t  that  poor  ill  baste  in 
the  room  below  groan  like  a human  or  else  a 
ghost — Barney  Brian,  what  room  did  your  poor 
mother  die  in?” 

“In  that  same  room,”  says  Barney.  “And,” 


WIDOW  MEEHAN  S SHAWL  37 

says  Barney,  never  mindin’  the  frightened  look 
that  come  into  Bid’s  face,  “as  I was  sayin’ — 
‘grant,  give,  bequaith,  and  bestow  my  magnificent 
Cassimeer  shawl — the  magmficentest  in  the  bar- 
ony, bar  none — the  aforesaid  shawl  bein’  the 
same  which  Partlan  McCue  fetched  from  Phila- 
delphy,  from  my  gran’-niece  Annie  to  me;  and  I 
wish  her  health,  wealth,  and  the  Lord’s  blissinV 
while  she  wears  it  and  two  threads  of  it  stick 
together.’  ” 

The  eyes  of  Bid  Managhan,  as  she  listened  to 
this,  grew  bigger  and  bigger,  and  when  Barney 
got  to  his  feet  and  opened  the  chist  and  took  out 
and  unfolded  his  mother’s  Cassimeer  shawl,  and 
held  it  up  for  Bid  to  see,  the  eyes  of  her  were  as 
large  as  small  tay-saucers. 

“Barney  Brian,”  says  she,  when  she  got  her 
breath  with  her,  “durin’  all  the  days  I’ve  beem 
walkin’  this  worl’,  the  sight  of  me  never  yet  beheld 
a beautifuller  or  a grander  or  a magnificenter  leg- 
acy than  that.  Barney  Brian,  that  poor  mother  of 
yours  died  in  the  odium  of  sanctity,  and  the  soul 
of  her  went  up  and  into  heaven  on  the  shoulders 
of  the  seven  vargins,  the  seven  pathriots,  and  the 
seven  archangels  afore  the  breath  was  gone  out 
of  her  body.  Thanky,  just  slip  it  on  me  shoulders, 
Barney.  Did  ye — now  tell  me  the  gospel  truth — 
did  ye  ever  see  a greater  swell  than  I am?  But 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


38 

what  will  Uncle  Andy’s  ones  say?  Barney,  I’m 
going;  and  goin’  round  by  the  graveyard  in  order 
to  say  three  rosaries  for  the  everlastin’  repose  of 
that  sainted  woman’s  soul,  your  mother. — Good- 
bye, Barney,  and  may  God  comfort  ye  in  your 
great  loss,  and  His  blissin  ever  be  about  you,  and 
about  your  house  and  place.”  And  she  rolled  up 
her  old  boots  in  her  old  shawl  and  placed  them 
under  her  arm.  “I  may  as  well  carry  these  with 
me,”  says  she,  “for  maybe  I’ll  meet  some  poor 
body  ’ill  be  glad  to  get  them,”  says  she. 

Says  Barney,  says  he,  “That’s  so,  surely.  And 
good-bye  and  good  luck,  and  God  be  with  ye,” 
says  he. 

And  down  the  floor  she  walked,  headin’  for  the 
door,  and  she  proud  as  3 paycock  that  had  got 
a new  coat  of  feathers,  and  steppin’  as  pernicketty 
as  if  it  was  on  eggs  she  was  walkin’. 

But  with  that  the  room-door  (which  was  just 
inside  the  door  of  the  house)  burst  open,  and  out 
of  it  steps  the  Widow  Meehan,  the  face  of  her 
both  black  and  blue  and  red  all  at  the  one  time, 
with  the  fair  dint  of  the  rage. 

Bid  Managhan,  she  opened  her  mouth  for  a 
screech,  but  the  sorra  a screech  or  even  a sound 
would  come,  and  she  just  went  white,  and  flopped 
down  upon  the  floor,  same  as  you’d  drop  a wet 
sack — flopped  down  sitting-wise,  both  her  mouth 


WIDOW  MEEHAN’S  SHAWL  39 

and  her  eyes  as  wide  as  ever  they’d  go,  starin’  at 
the  vision  afore  her. 

The  Widow  Meehan,  without  a word  out  of 
her,  though  her  face  was  bustin’  with  all  she  felt 
inside  of  her,  just  dropped  upon  her  knees  and 
dragged  her  Sunday  boots  off  Bid  Managhan’s 
feet,  that  seemed  stretched  out  to  her  for  the 
purpose.  She  threw  Bid’s  feet  from  her  when  she 
was  done  with  them,  and  snatched  her  beautiful 
Cassimeer  off  her  shoulders,  and  then  stood  her 
up,  and  made  her  drop  off  the  skirt.  She  stooped 
over  Bid  while  the  poor  woman,  with  hands  that 
shook  like  a mill-hopper,  gave  her  own  old  brogues 
a hasty  fastenin’  upon  her,  and  drew  her  own  old 
shawl  over  her  shoulders,  and  then,  “Go,”  says 
she,  pointin’  to  the  door — “Go,  Bid  Managhan, 
and  don’t  let  the  evil  shadow  of  you  darken  my 
threshel  again  for  a month  o’  Sundays.” 

But  poor  Bid  needed  little  encouragement  to 
go.  She  took  the  door  as  speedy  as  she  could, 
and,  a crestfallen  woman,  she  went  on  her  journey 
again  to  her  Uncle  Andy’s. 

And  then,  when  the  widow  thought  it  time  to 
give  her  attentions  to  her  unworthy  son,  she  turned 
to  open  the  flood-gates  on  him.  But,  inagh!  there 
was  no  Barney  Brian  there;  for  when  he  got  the 
two  women  engaged  with  each  other,  he  thought 


40 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


it  a good  opportunity  to  go  out  by  the  back-door 
and  look  at  the  weather. 

But  the  weather  must  ’a’  been  a long  way  off 
that  day;  bekase  it  was  two  days  and  two  nights 
afore  he  come  in  again. 

And,  ’t  was  a while  longer  afore  Bid  Managhan 
come  again. 


Ill 


THE  CADGER-BOY’S  LAST  JOURNEY 

HIS  poor  mother,  after  blessing  herself 
with  the  little  brass  cross  upon  her 
beads,  arose  from  her  knees  and  took 
again  her  customary  seat  by  Hughie’s  bedside. 
Hughie,  who  had  been  lying  in  a state  of  oblivious- 
ness rather  than  sleep,  had  his  faculties  recalled 
even  by  the  very  little  noise  his  mother’s  motion 
made.  Her  gaze  was  bent  upon  her  lap,  where 
her  hands,  still  holding  the  beads,  lay  limply.  For 
several  minutes  Hughie  watched  her,  noting  the 
worn  look  which  had  asserted  itself  on  her  fea- 
tures. 

“Mother!”  Hughie  said  at  length. 

His  mother  started.  “Hughie,  a leanbh*  sure 
I thought  it  was  sleepin’  ye  were.  What  is  it  ye 
want,  a theagair ?”t 

“Mother,  what  time  is  it  in  the  night?” 

“It’s  atween  an  hour  an’  two  hours  after  mid- 
night, son.” 

* O child,  pron.  a lanniv . 
t O treasure,  pron.  a haigur . 


41 


42 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


“Mother,”  Hughie  said,  “the  heart  o’  ye  is 
bruck  with  this  weary  siftin'  up  with  me  every 
night ” 

“Arrah,  Hughie,  Hughie!”  his  mother  said, 
upbraidingly,  “what  is  it  ye’re  sayin’ ! Whisht 
with  ye !” 

“Och,  I know  it,  mother — I know  it.  If  ye 
hadn’t  a holy  saint’s  patience,  an’  God’s  helpin’ 
hand,  ye’d  ha’  given  in  long  ago.” 

“What’s  come  over  ye,  Hughie,  to  be  givin’ 
such  nonsense  out  of  ye?  Sure,  it’s  not  want 
to  put  pain  on  me  ye  do,  is  it?” 

“What  day  i’  the  week’s  this,  tell  me,  mother?” 
“This?  It’s  Friday  night.” 

“Friday  night.  An’  it  was  on  a Monday 
evenin’  I lay  down.  Mother,  was  it  nine  weeks 
or  ten  last  Monday  evenin’?  I’m  beginnin’  to 
lose  count  i’  the  weeks  lately  meself.” 

“Och,  I don’t  know,  Hughie.  Sure,  that’s  all 
God’s  will,  dear.” 

“I  know  it’s  God’s  will,  mother — an’  God’s 
will  be  done — I b’leeve  it’s  ten  weeks;  an’  if  it  was 
His  will  that  it  should  be  ten  times  ten  weeks,  I 
could  bear  the  sickness.  But  then,  the  sickness  i’ 
the  body  is  nothin’ — nothin’  at  all — to  the  sore- 
ness i’  the  heart.  An’  it’s  you  has  to  bear  that. 
That’s  what  puts  worst  on  me,  mother  dear.” 

“Do  ye  want  to  put  pain  on  me,  Hughie?” 


CADGER-BOY’S  LAST  JOURNEY  43 

“Och,  mother,  don’t  be  talkin’  that  way.  Sure 
I know,  an’  I can’t  help  knowin’,  the  pains  on  ye. 
Ye’re  as  brave  a mother — there’s  no  denyin’ — as 
ever  was;  but  let  the  bravest  i’  them  come  through 
all  you  come  through  for  the  ten  weeks  gone,  an’ 
suffer  all  you  suffered,  an’  never  for  all  that  time 
stretch  themselves  six  times  upon  a bed — let  the 
bravest  i’  the  mothers  do  that,  an’  see  what 
heart  they’ll  have  at  the  end  of  it.” 

“Och,  Hughie,  Hughie,  a mhic!*  I can’t 
stand  ye  at  all,  at  all.  You  mane  to  br’ak  me  pa- 
tience now,  at  any  rate.” 

“No,  mother,  I don’t.  But  if  I didn’t  say 
much  all  the  time  I’ve  been  lyin’  on  me  back  here, 
I was  thinkin’ — thinkin’  a great  dale.  An’  when 
I go,  mother — Och,  don’t,  mother!  Mother,  dear, 
don’t  go  for  to  cry  like  that,  or  ye’ll  trouble  me 
sore ! Sure  ye  know  yourself  I must  go.  Didn’t 
Father  Mick  tell  us  both  it  was  God’s  will,  an’  be 
reconciled  to  it?  An’  didn’t  you  yourself  give  in 
that  ye  were  reconciled  to  it?  An’  surely  I have 
a good  right  to  be  if  you  are.  Mother,  when  I 
go  I’ll  have  with  me  the  knowledge  of  the  brave 
woman  ye  were,  an’  of  all  ye  strove  with  an’  suf- 
fered, an’  of  how  ye  did  your  seven  bests  to  let 
no  wan  see  the  troubles  the  heart  of  ye  was  cornin’ 


*0  son. 


44 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


through.  I’ll  carry  that  knowledge  to  heaven 
with  me,  mother  dear.” 

His  mother  could  not  answer  him,  for  she  was 
striving  hard  with  the  tide  of  grief  which  swelled 
in  her  bosom  and  struggled  for  outlet. 

Little  Hughie  was,  to-night,  possessed  of  an 
exceptionally  talkative  mood. 

“If  ye  struggle  on,  with  God’s  help,  mother, 
for  another  year,  wee  Donal,  he’ll  be  able  an’ 
strong  an’  wise  enough  then  to  go  on  the  road.” 
Little  Donal  was  then  lying  at  Hughie’s  back, 
between  him  and  the  wall,  and  sleeping  peacefully. 

“Wee  Donal  ’ll  then  be  able  to  take  the  road 
with  the  powny  an’  cart;  an  ’wee  Donal  ’ll  be  as 
good  a son,  an’  better,  to  ye,  mother,  than  ever  I 
was — Though,  I never  kep’  any  money  I could 
help,  mother,  barrin’  (as  I toul’  ye  the  other  night 
— an’  as  I confessed  to  Father  Mick) — barrin’ 
three  ha’pence  for  tibacky,  days  I got  good  sale 
for  the  fish.  But  I couldn’t  do  without  the  ti- 
backy, mother,  wanst  I give  myself  the  bad  habit. 
Och,  mother,  if  you  would  only  know  lonely  nights 
that  I’d  be  thravelin’  dhreich*  an’  lonely  roads, 
an’  me,  too,  hungrier  than  I’d  wish — if  you  would 
only  know  the  comfort  an’  the  company  the  ti- 
backy was  to  me,  I know  ye’d  forgive  me,  keepin’ 


* Dreary. 


CADGER-BOY’S  LAST  JOURNEY  45 

an  odd  wee  three  ha’pence  for  it.  Now  wouldn’t 
ye,  mother?” 

“Och,  Hughiel  Och,  Hughie!” 

“I  just  knew  the  kindly  heart  i’  ye  couldn’t  do 
else  than  forgive  me.  But  I know,  too,  I should 
have  always  axed  your  laive  afore  I started  out  on 
me  journey — axed  your  laive  to  let  me  buy  the 
tibacky  for  meself.  But  ye  ever  were  so  dead 
again’  us  smokin’  that  I was  always  the  coward 
to  ax  ye. 

“An’,  ay,  many’s  the  long  an’  many’s  the 
dhreich  journey,  mother,  me  an’  the  powny  had 
with  our  wee  cart  i’  fish.  An’,  thank  God,  many’s 
the  pleasant  journey,  too — far,  far  more  of  that 
sort  than  of  the  dhreich  wans.  I mind  me  many’s 
the  lovely  moonlight  night  when  we  traveled  along 
the  white  mountain  road  goin’  through  to  Pettigo, 
or  goin’  up  to  Enniskillen  an’  to  Cavan.  An’ 
where  there’d  be  miles  an’  miles  of  that  road 
through  the  Pettigo  mountains  where  there  wasn’t 
a house  or  a hut,  or  you  wouldn’t  meet  a sinner 
in  broad  day,  let  alone  i’  the  night,  I used  not  to 
have  wan  bit  fear,  mother.  You  always  shook  the 
holy  water  on  me  when  I had  me  cap  lifted,  blis- 
sin’  meself  afore  I left  the  doore  without;  an’ 
then,  when  that  time  i’  night  come  that  I thought 
yous  was  sayin’  the  Rosary  here  at  home,  an’  I’d 
have  got  on  me  good  lonely  part  i’  the  road,  I’d 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


46 

take  me  cap  in  me  han’  an’  I’d  say  me  own  wee 
prayers  as  me  an’  the  powny  jogged  on : an’  after 
that  I’d  know  no  fear,  howsomiver  lonesome  it 
might  be.  An’,  och,  mother,  the  lonesomeness,  in 
the  middle  i’  the  mountains  on  a clear  moonlight 
night,  had  somethin’  gran’  about  it.” 

“Hughie,  a thaisge*  I hope  ye’re  not  dis- 
thressin’  yourself  talkin’,”  his  mother  said,  laying 
a gentle  hand  on  his  forehead. 

“Oh  no,  motherl  Oh  no,  mother!  It  does  me 
good  to  think  over  them  things  now,  an’  have  you 
listenin’  to  me.  But  then,  mother  dear,  maybe 
it’s  too  tired  to  listen  ye  are?” 

“Oh  no,  Hughie;  no,  Hughie  a mhic.  Tell  on 
— I’d  never  be  tired  listenin’  to  ye.” 

“Thanky,  mother.  Och,  mother,  many  an’ 
many’s  the  beautiful  journey  I had  with  me  wee 
cart  i’  fish,  if  I only  begun  to  tell  ye  them — settin’ 
off  here  afore  nightfall,  an’  thravelin’  all  night, 
an’  bein’  in  Strabane  market  or  maybe  Enniskillen 
market,  next  day,  an  sellin’  out  me  wee  load,  an’ 
maybe  clearin’  ten  or  twelve  or  maybe  sometimes 
fifteen  shillin’s,  an’  then,  afther  a good  rest  an’  a 
good  hearty  male,  not  forgettin’  poor  Johnnie, 
startin’  to  thravel  back  for  home  the  nixt  night 
again,  with  me  gains  in  me  pocket — as  happy  as 


* O store. 


CADGER-BOY’S  LAST  JOURNEY  47 

the  son  of  a prence;  an’  havin’  an  odd  wee  sleep  in 
the  bed  i’  the  cart,  too.” 

“Och,  Hughie,  it  was  gran’  surely,  an’  no  mis- 
take.” 

“Ah,  gran’  was  no  name  for  it,  mother!  An’ 
then,  too,  at  the  boats — when  they  came  in,  the 
men  always  give  me  such  bargains,  bekase  of 
whose  son  I was.” 

“They  did,  a mhic.  They  did,  Hughie,  a 
thaisge.  God  bliss  them,  an’  reward  them.” 
“God  bliss  them  over  again,  an’  reward  them, 
mother.  They  couldn’t  be  kinder  to  me.  An’  I 
often  thought  it  was  better,  afther  all,  that  ye 
wouldn’t  let  me  join  a boat  meself,  mother.” 

“No,  no,  Hughie,  a gradh!  No,  I wouldn’t. 
Not  after  your  poor  father,  a gradh!  No,  no! 
God  rest  him!” 

“God  rest  him,  mother!  God  rest  him!  An’ 
small  wonder  you  wouldn’t  let  wan  belongin’  to 
ye  go  upon  the  sae  again.  It’s  a cruel,  treacherous 
sae,  mother,  God  knows!  Mother  dear,  don’t 
cry.  What’s  done  can’t  be  undone.” 

“Ay,  ay,  Hughie.  Ay,  a cruel  treacherous  sae. 
But,  for  all  that,  we  can’t  say  much  again’  it, 
Hughie — we  can’t  say  much  again’  it.  Where 
would  we,  an’  where  would  all  our  neighbors  be, 
but  for  it?” 

“That’s  right,  mother.  That’s  right.  That’s 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


48 

what  IVe  always  sayed  when  I heerd  them  com- 
plainin’ again’  it,  that,  like  you,  lost  their  nearest 
an’  dearest  be  it.  It’s  ill  our  cornin’*  to  say  a 
hard  word  again’  the  sae. — Mother,  open  the 
doore.” 

“For  what,  a leanhbf  Are  you  too  warm,  a 

paisdinf”f 

“No;  but  I want  to  see  the  sae,  an’  to  hear  it. 
There’s  a moon,  isn’t  there?” 

“Yis,  Hughie  dear;  there’s  a moon,  an’  a bright 
wan,  thank  God,”  his  mother  said,  going  to  the 
door  and  opening  it  wide. 

“Mother,  are  ye  too  tired  to  rise  me  up  a wee 
thrifle  in  the  bed,  an’  let  me  head  rest  in  your  lap, 
till  I see  out?” 

“Tired?  No,  no,  Hughie.  No,  no.  Aisy, 
a mhic — gently  now.  Don’t  sthress  yourself,  a 
ph.aisd.in  mhilis.  There  now,  there  now,  lay  your 
head  there.  Now  can  ye  see  the  sae  away  below 
thonder  (yonder).” 

“Yis,  yis,  mother,  thank  God.  I see  it — I see 
it.  The  yalla  moonlight  baitin’  down  on  it  has 
it  like  flowin’  goold.  Oh,  mother,  it’s  beautiful!” 

“It  is  beautiful,  a theagair — beautiful!” 

The  Widow  Cannon’s  house  was  far  up  on  the 

* It  ill  becomes  us. 
fO  child. 


CADGER-BOY’S  LAST  JOURNEY  49 

Ardaghey  hillside,  and  the  sea  out  at  Inver  bar 
and  beyond  was  plainly  visible  through  the  door 
from  the  corner  in  which  was  placed  Hughie’s 
bed.  A muffled  music,  too,  could  be  heard  ascend- 
ing from  the  bar. 

Hughie  lay  quietly  gazing,  gazing. 

After  a while  two  yawls  were  plainly  seen  far 
out  darting  athwart  the  yellow  path  which  the 
moon  laid  along  the  waters. 

“The  boats,”  Hughie  said,  “are  aff,*  mother, 
thi’  night.” 

“Yis,  Hughie;  they’re  aff.” 

Then  Hughie  again  relapsed  into  silence, 
watching  and  thinking.  A smile  of  sweet  content, 
his  mother  saw  with  gladness,  gradually  grew 
upon  his  countenance  and  played  about  his  glis- 
tening eyes.  And  presently,  to  the  sweet  murmur 
of  the  bar,  his  eyes  closed,  and  he  slept. 

The  Widow  Cannon  stirred  not  one  little  bit, 
lest  she  should  disturb  the  poor  boy’s  slumber — 
his  first  for  many  days  and  nights.  But  her  lips 
began  to  move  again  in  prayer,  and  a disengaged 
hand  to  tell  the  beads.  Occasionally  her  eyes  were 
turned  up  to  heaven,  but  mostly  they  rested  upon 
the  now  placid,  smiling  countenance  of  her  poor 
boy,  who  slept  on. 

* Off ; i.  e.,  at  the  fishing  grounds. 


5o 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


“Mother?” 

“Yis,  a mhilis ?*  Is  it  awake  ye  are?” 

“Why,  was  it  sleepin’  I was,  mother  dear?” 
“Ay,  sleepin’,  a mhic  dhilis.  A sweet  sleep.” 
“There  ye  are — an’  I thinkin’  I went  through 
it  all.” 

“What,  darlin’?  Was  it  dhraimin’  ye  were?” 
“Ay,  dhraimin’  I suppose  it  must  ’a’  been.  But 
I thought — Mother!” 

“What  is  it  now,  a mhic?” 

“Who’s  callin’?” 

“I  hear  no  wan  callin’,  Hughie  dear.” 

“Listen!  Don’t  ye  hear?  Hear  to  that  ! Who’s 
that?  'What’s  that?” 

“That?  Oh,  that’s  the  bar,  Hughie  dear — 
that’s  only  the  bar  ye  hear.” 

“Is  it  the  bar? — Well,  mother,  as  I was  sayin’, 
I thought  I had  got  up  an’  fed  Johnnie,  an’  then 
pulled  out  the  rakin’s  i’  the  fire,  an’  made  myself 
a drop  i’  tay  in  the  porringer,  an’  then  harnesshed 
Johnnie,  an’  yocked  him,  an’  away  with  the  both 
of  us  away  to  the  sthran’,  to  see  if  the  boats  was 
in.  An’  when  we  got  to  the  sthran’  there  wasn’t 
a boat  in  yet,  nor  there  wasn’t  a cadger  come  upon 
the  sthran’  with  powny  or  donkey.  An’  then  I 
saw  it  was  the  moon  was  shinin’  bright  upon  the 
waters,  makin’  it  look  near  like  day.  There  was 

* My  sweet. 


CADGER-BOY’S  LAST  JOURNEY  51 

the  big  white  sthran’  sthretchin’  from  me  to  the 
right  an’  to  the  left,  with  niver  another  sowl  on  it 
but  meself  an’  Johnnie,  the  powny.  An’  the  Inver 
Warren  over  beyont  me;  an’  the  Fanaghan  banks 
risin’  up  black  behin’  me,  an’  the  full  tide  washin’ 
in  an’  br’akin  in  wee  ripples  that  had  a dhreamy, 
sing-song  sound,  at  me  feet.  An’  then,  far,  far 
away,  away  out  on  the  wather,  I could  see  the 
yawls  an’  the  boats  hard  at  the  fishin’.  An’  all  at 
wanst,  mother,  while  I was  lookin’,  what  does  I 
see  but  wan  particular  boat  cornin’  glidin’  in  swift, 
straight  along  the  sort  of  yalla  river  that  the 
moon  made  from  where  the  waters  an’  the  skies 
met,  right  up  to  my  feet;  in  along  this  goolden 
river  I sees  the  boat  cornin’  faster  an’  faster,  far 
faster  than  any  of  the  boats  ever  does;  an’  it  was 
cornin’  rowin’  right  up  tor’st  where  I was.  I seen 
there  was  a lady  all  in  white  in  the  bow  i’  the  boat, 
an’  when  it  come  near  she  was  standin’  up  an’ 
callin’  me  with  her  finger.  An’  she  looked  iver 
such  a beautiful  lady,  mother,  when  they  come 
nearer  still.  An’  when  they  did  come  nearer,  into 
within  wadin’  distance,  an’  they  turned  the  boat 
roun’  so  that  they  faced  me,  an’  shipped  their 
oars,  I knew  every  wan  was  in  the  boat.  An’, 
mother  dear,  who  was  it  but  me  father  was  at  the 
helm!  me  father  himself!  An’  James  an’  Pat- 
rick Magroarty  was  on  the  after  oars ! an’  Feargal 


52 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


McCue  on  the  second  bow!  Just  the  very  four, 
mother,  that  went  down  in  me  father’s  boat.  An’ 
Micky  Dinnien,  that  got  saved,  his  oar  it  was 
lyin’  along  the  thafts  with  no  wan  to  pull  it! 

“But  the  most  curious  part  of  the  thing,  mother, 
was  that  I wasn’t  wan  bit  surprised  to  see  them. 
Lookin’  at  them  there,  I knew  right  well — minded 
right  well — that  they  were  drownded;  but,  all 
the  same,  I somehow  thought  they  were  still  alive 
— ye  know,  mother,  how  draims  does  go  that 
way?” 

“Yis,  Hughie;  yis,  Hughie.  O God  rest  their 
souls,  Hughie!” 

“God  rest  them,  mother.  Well,  as  I sayed, 
when  the  boat  come  as  far  as  to  be  near  groundin’, 
they  swung  her  round,  be  Feargal  McCue  skewin' 
on  his  oar.  An’  then  me  father,  he  rises  from  the 
helm,  an’  he  says,  ‘Hughie,’  says  he,  ‘we’re  short 
of  a han’  since  we  lost  Micky  Dinnien’  (him  was 
saved,  mind  you,  mother) — ‘short  of  a han’,’  says 
he,  ‘since  we  lost  Micky  Dinnien,’  an’ — Mother, 
do  ye  hear?” 

“What!  what!  a stoir,  mo  chroidhe? * What 
is  it?” 

“Who’s  that  callin’,  mother?  Listen!  Now 
— -hear  it  now!” 

“Hughie,  Hughie,  a thaisge,  that’s  the  bar  ye 

* Treasure  of  my  heart. 


CADGER-BOY’S  LAST  JOURNEY  53 

hear  again.  The  noise  is  risin’  an’  failin’,  as  ye 
know  it  always  does.  That’s  the  bar,  a phaisdin.” 

“Is  it  the  bar,  mother?  It  sounds  to  me  very 
like  some  wan  callin’ — very.  Well,  mother,  as  I 
was  tellin’  ye,  me  father  he  says,  ‘We’re  short  of 
a han’  since  we  lost  Micky  Dinnien,  and  we  can 
come  but  poor  speed  on  the  fishin’  grounds.  We 
seen  you,  Hughie,  come  down  with  the  powny  to 
the  sthran’,  an’  we  rowed  in,  to  take  ye  aboord. 
Will  ye  step  in  like  a good  chile,  Hughie,  and  pull 
on  the  bow  oar  for  us?’  But  I minded,  mother, 
how  you  promised,  an’  made  me  promise,  I’d 
never  take  to  the  fishin’  after  what  happened; 
so  I had  to  refuse  him.  ‘Father,’  says  I,  ‘I’d  like 
to  do  as  ye  ax  me,  an’  take  the  bow  oar,  but  I 
can’t — I can’t.  Ye  know,’  says  I,  ‘how  me  poor 
mother’s  so  dead  again’  my  ever  goin’  in  wan  i’ 
the  boats;  and  ye  know  her  poor  oul  heart  it’s  nigh 
bruck  already;  an’  I’ll  never  have  it  sayed  that  I 
was  the  manes  of  br’akin’  it  out  an’  out’.  ‘An’ 
God  bliss  ye,  me  son,  for  mindin’  your  poor  moth- 
er’s wishes  so,’  says  me  father  back  again. 

“An’  with  that,  mother,  who  should  appear  but 
yourself  up  on  the  bank  above  me,  an’  ye  called 
down  to  me : ‘Go  with  your  father,  Hughie — go 
with  your  poor  father.’  I was  ever  so  glad  when  I 
got  your  laive  to  go,  for  I was  burning  to  go.  I 
threw  me  arms  roun’  Johnnie’s  neck,  an’  I called 


54 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


to  ye,  ‘Mother,  come  you  down  an’  take  Johnnie 
home,  an’  don’t  forget  him  while  me  an’  me 
father’s  aff.’  The  white  lady  she  was  standin’ 
up  in  the  bow  of  the  boat  now,  and  she  was 
wavin’  her  hands  to  me  to  come.  ‘Come,  Hughie,’ 
she  calls;  ‘come,  wee  Hughie!  the  tide’s  laivin’, 
and  we’ll  get  sthranded  when  we  should  be  on 
the  fishin’  grounds.’ 

“I  waded  into  the  water  immediately  an’  out 
to  the  boat — and  I was  just  almost  beside  the  boat 
— within  a step  of  it  or  two,  an’  the  beautiful 
white  lady  had  her  hands  stretched  out,  to  give 
me  a help  in  over  the  bows,  an’  I was  stretchin’ 
out  my  hands  tor’st  her,  when  there  come  a 
smooth  swell  that  shook  an’  staggered  me  where 
I stood,  an’  I thought  I’d  a’  fallen  backwards — 
but  the  white  lady  at  that  stretched  out  further 
to  help  me — when  I wakened! 

“Mother,  wasn’t  that  or  not  a wonderful 
dhraim?” 

“Yis;  wonderful  it  was,  Hughie — mighty  won- 
derful, me  poor  fella.  It  was  a very  strange, 
oncommon  dhraim.  An’  Micky  Dinnien’s  oar, 
too,  was  idle ! And  they  sayin’  they’d  lost 
Micky!” 

“That  was  the  very  thing,  mother,  I thought 
strangest  of  all.” 

“Hughie,  we’ll  say  a Pather-an’-Ave  for  the 


CADGER-BOY’S  LAST  JOURNEY  55 

rest  of  your  father’s  soul,  an’  the  souls  of  the 
crew.” 

“Yis,  mother,  do.” 

Then  the  widow  slowly  intoned  the  “Our 
Father,”  and  Hughie  took  it  up  fervently  at 
“Give  us  this  day,”  and  the  widow  poured  forth 
her  soul  in  the  “Hail  Mary!  full  of  grace,”  while 
wasted,  emaciated  Hughie  clasped  his  hands  and 
with  streaming  eyes  strenuously  pleaded  a “Holy 
Mary,  Mother  of  God;”  and  both  then  chorused 
joyously:  “ Glory  be  to  the  Father,  and  to  the  Son , 
and  to  the  Holy  Ghost.  Amen!” 

“Mother,”  said  Hughie,  “I’ll  sleep.11 

“Sleep  then,  a chuisle  mo  chroidhe  * sleep — 
Thank  God!”  said  his  mother. 

Ere  she  had  finished  the  sentence  Hughie’s 
eyes  had  closed,  and  he  was  again  asleep.  She 
still  held  in  her  lap  his  head,  as  she  had  done  now 
for  upward  of  two  hours.  She  bent  down  and 
left  a faint  kiss  on  his  white  brow. 

“Mother,  is  that  you,  there?” 

“Yis,  Hughie,  a leanbh.  Are  ye  aisy?” 

“Mother,  what  are  ye  doin’  there?  Who’s 
callin’,  mother?” 

“I’m  only  aisin’  your  head,  Hughie — boldin’  it 

* Pulse  of  my  heart. 


56  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

up — an’  restin’  meself  sittin’  here. — There’s  no 
wan  callin’,  Hughie.  That’s  the  bar,  ye  hear.” 

“Oh,  but  there’s  some  wan  callin’ — callin’  me, 
mother.  Listen  to  it!”  Hughie’s  voice  was  very 
low. 

t>  “Hughie,  a mhilis,  no.  It’s  the  bar.  Sure  your 
own  Mother  knows.” 

“Is  it  near  mornin’,  mother?  What  time  is 
it?” 

“It’s  near  mornin’,  Hughie.  The  first  streaks 
is  on  the  sky.” 

“The  first  streaks  on  the  sky,  an’  me  lyin’  here! 
an’  the  boats  in!  Mother,  what  day’s  this? 
What’s  come  over  me,  anyhow,  that  I’ve  lost  the 
memory  o’  what  day  it  is?” 

“This  is  Monday  mornin’,  Hughie,  a thaisge." 

“An’  the  morra’s  market-day  in  Enniskillen — 
isn’t  it,  mother?” 

“I  suppose  so,  Hughie,  I suppose  so.  But,  a 
tliaisge,  don’t,  don’t  be  distressin’  yourself  about 
them  things.” 

“Och,  mother,  mother,  it’s  not  here  I should  be 
lyin’,  at  this  time  i’  the  mornin’ — an’  I havin’  to 
go  buy  me  load  yet,  an’  be  as  far  as  Pettigo  afore 
nightfall,  an’  be  goin’  up  Enniskillen  street  with 
the  first  light  the  morra  mornin’ — Mother, 
mother,  let  me  up. — Put  me  on  a dhrop  i’  tay,  an’ 
butter  me  a bit  of  oat-cake,  an’  I’ll  give  a grain 


CADGER-BOY’S  LAST  JOURNEY  57 

i’  corn  to  poor  Johnnie. — Mother,  why  don’t  ye 
let  me  up,  I say?  The  boats  is  in  two  hours  ago. 
Look  out.  There  isn’t  a sign  i’  wan  of  them  on 
the  water!” 

“Whisht,  whisht!  Oh,  Hughie,  a thaisge, 
whisht  an’  lie  quiet.  Don’t  ye  know,  a gradh, 
ye’re  far  through  with  the  sickness?  Oh,  Hughie, 
a phaisdin,  whishc,  whisht  with  ye  !” 

“Mother,  I must  be  on  the  market  pavement  of 
Enniskillen  this  time  the  morra  mornin’.  Mother, 
why  will  ye  hould  me,  an’  you  hearin’  them  callin’  ? 
Don’t  ye  hear,  mother?  Don’t  ye  hear?  ‘Hughie! 
Hughie!  HUGHIE!’  Don’t  ye  hear  them, 
mother?” 

“Och,  Hughie  i’  me  heart,  lie  down  quiet.  Or 
what’s  cornin’  over  ye,  Hughie? — No,  no, 
Hughie!  ye  mustn’t,  ye  can’t  go  for  to  rise,  a 
leanbh !” 

“Hear  to  them,  mother!  Hear  to  them! 
Hughie!  Hughie!  HUGHIE !’  Don’t  ye  hear? 
— AY ! AY ! — Och,  call  you  from  the  doore  for 
me,  mother — call  you,  mother  dear,  for  my 
voice’ll  not  let  me  call  loud,  whatever’s  come  on 
it.  Call  ‘Ay!’  mother,  an’  tell  them  I’m  cornin’ 
as  soon  as  poor  Johnnie’s  fed.” 

“Yis,  Hughie,  a thaisge,  yis.  If  you  lie  quiet 
I’ll  call  to  them.” 

“Mother,  what  do  ye  mane?  Lie  quiet! — an’ 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


58 

the  boats  in ! — an’  the  light  on  the  sky — an’  me 
havin’  to  be  goin’  up  Enniskillen  sthreet  this  time 
the  morra  mornin’,  mother  ! — forty  long  mile,  an’ 
a tiresome  journey  for  poor  Johnnie.  It’s  a long 

journey,  mother,  but — I — must ” 

His  poor  mother  had  to  force  Hughie  back 
upon  the  bed.  It  didn’t  take  much  force,  indeed. 
Then  he  became  quiet,  suddenly.  The  look  of 
anxiety  and  unrest  slowly  passed  from  his  fea- 
tures. His  two  hands  closed  in  a faster  clasp  upon 
one  hand  of  his  mother,  which  in  the  struggle  he 
had  caught.  A smile  of  sweet  peace  settled  upon 
his  white,  wasted  face,  and  the  cadger-boy  started 
upon  his  last  journey. 


IV 


THE  MINISTER’S  RACEHORSE 

PRESBYTERIAN  though  he  was — and 
Presbyterian  minister  at  that — there  was 
not  a more  widely  beloved  man  at  Knock* 
agar  than  Mr.  M’Cracken,  barrin’,  of  course, 
Father  Dan  himself.  But  that  goes  without  say- 
ing. 

From  Pat  the  Public  to  Johnny  the  Post  the 
good  old  soul  was  beloved  of  all.  “All  creeds 
admired  him,”  as  Pat  Moroney  put  it  in  The 
Drimstevlin  Universe , “and  all  classes  esteemed.” 
It  was  apropos  of  his  apprehended  departure 
from  Knockagar,  where  he  had  diligently  de- 
voted all  the  years  of  his  prime  alike  to  the  spir- 
itual and  temporal  care  of  his  small,  Fumble,  and 
widely  distributed  flock,  that  Pat  wrote.  For,  after 
his  long  and  arduous  years  of  labor  at  Knock- 
agar, it  was  said  he  was  about  to  reap  his  reward, 
and  be  called  to  end  his  days  in  tranquillity  and 
ease  in  the  ministry  of  the  wealthy  and  well-to-do 
Presbyterian  parish  of  Largymore.  The  minis- 
ter of  Largymore  had  just  been  slipped  under  the 

59 


6o 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


sod;  and,  casting  about  for  a becoming  successor, 
the  elders  of  that  parish,  acting  upon  strong  repre- 
sentations laid  before  them,  were  inclined  to  ex- 
tend to  Mr.  M’Cracken,  in  the  distant  country  of 
Knockagar,  a unanimous  call  to  the  office. 

When  this  startling  news — which  surprised 
Mr.  M’Cracken  as  much  as  it  did  his  humblest 
parishioner — ran  like  wildfire  through  Knockagar, 
there  was  mingled  joy  and  grief  in  the  hearts  of 
all,  including  alike  that  of  Mr.  M’Cracken  and 
that  of  Micky  M’Granahan,  the  atheist,  who 
broke  stones  at  the  cross-roads  on  weekdays,  and, 
with  other  reprobates,  played  cards  for  buttons, 
at  the  back  of  Tom  Hegarty’s  march-ditch  on 
Sundays. 

There  was  deep  joy  in  their  breasts,  inasmuch 
as  even  the  very  dogs  of  the  parish  had  come  to 
love  Mr.  M’Cracken.  Such  a stroke  of  good  luck 
for  him  in  his  old  days  warmed  the  cockles  of 
their  hearts;  but  there  was  deep  grief  at  the 
thought  of  losing  him.  And  the  idea  of  going 
away  to  rich  and  well-to-do  Largymore,  leaving 
his  poor  and  scattered  flock  to  be  cared  for  by, 
perhaps,  some  hard  and  unsympathetic  stranger, 
who,  though  he  would  live  a lifetime  among  them, 
might  never  penetrate  to  the  milky  kernel  of  kind- 
ness that  was  so  well  concealed  beneath  their  hard 
outer  shell,  wrung  the  heart  of  the  good  old  man 


THE  MINISTER’S  RACEHORSE  61 


himself.  But  as  they  knew,  and  as  he  knew,  that 
old  age  had  surely  overtaken  him,  and  that  he 
was  becoming  unfitted  to  do  the  work  of  such  a 
large  and  scattered  parish  as  conscientiously  as 
only  he  could  do  it,  both  Mr.  M’Cracken  and  his 
flock  had  to  concede  to  themselves  that  the  pro- 
posed call  to  Largymore  was  probably  God-di- 
rected. Then,  accepting  it  in  this  spirit,  he  and  his 
sorrow-stricken  congregation  bowed  their  heads. 

When  the  word  passed — as,  very  soon  after,  it 
did — that  two  elders  from  Largymore  were  ap- 
pointed to  come  and  see  Mr.  M’Cracken  and 
his  parish,  to  interview  him  and  hear  him  preach, 
his  parishioners  and  friends  at  once  donned  their 
pride.  They  put  their  heads  together,  and  said 
that  their  faithful  old  minister  must  have — what 
he  never  owned  in  his  life  before — a horse  and 
trap  that  would  be  a credit  to  him,  and  a credit 
to  the  parish,  a conveyance  in  which  to  drive  the 
Largymore  elders  around,  and  which  to  carry  off 
with  him  to  Largymore  for  his  own  future  ease 
and  comfort,  and  for  the  keeping  of  poor  Knock- 
agar  and  its  people  green  in  his  memory. 

Mr.  M’Cracken,  who  had  never  in  his  life  be- 
fore aspired  to  a four-footed  beast  or  a wheel  con- 
veyance, ever  traveling  the  tedious  length  and 
breadth  of  his  parish  on  foot — as  the  Master, 
whom  he  aspired  to  imitate,  traveled — was  over- 


62 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


whelmed  by  such  generous  desire  on  the  part  of 
his  poor  parishioners.  He  emphatically  protested 
that,  both  for  their  sakes  and  his  own  sake,  he 
could  not  dream  of  accepting  such  a present  at 
their  hands. 

His  protest,  however,  was  unconcernedly  ig- 
nored. They  had  made  up  their  minds  that  he 
should  Have  a horse  and  trap — and  a horse  and 
trap,  so,  he  must  have.  He  besought,  entreated, 
and  remonstrated.  But  his  entreaties  and  remon- 
strances were  brushed  aside  and  disregarded. 

The  poor  of  the  parish — which  is  to  say,  all  of 
the  parish,  for  in  Knockagar  they  were  only  rich 
in  God’s  blessing — Catholic,  Protestant,  Metho- 
dist, and  Presbyterian,  had,  in  public  meeting  as- 
sembled— in  Matthew  M’Court’s  barn — de- 

manded that  the  best  horse  and  trap  which  money 
could  buy  in  the  parish  should  without  delay  be 
placed  at  the  disposal  of  the  departing  pastor. 
And  Pat  the  Public,  who  possessed  a retired  racer 
• — which  he  had,Bought-in  for  the  purpose  of  de- 
livering his  porter  and  other  liquid  commodities  at 
the  public-houses  of  the  country — magnanimously 
made  offer  of  his  horse — which  was  considered  the 
glory  of  the  parish,  although  it  was  “over  in  the 
knees” — at  the  same  money  for  which  he  had  pur- 
chased it;  and  his  trap,  which  was  a new  one,  at 
first  cost  also,  less  three  half-crowns  to  be  de- 


THE  MINISTER’S  RACEHORSE  63 

ducted  as  his  own  subscription — all  as  a token  of 
the  whole-souled  esteem  and  admiration  which  he 
entertained  for  Mr.  M’Cracken,  although  the  lat- 
ter’s opinions,  both  on  theological  and  temperance 
questions,  diverged  from  the  opinions  of  the  said 
Pat  as  far  as  opinions  could  diverge. 

Now,  although  Mr.  M’Cracken  had  a red  nose, 
which  was  a veritable  ignis  fatuns  to  strangers,  he 
was  the  most  sincere  and  the  most  staunch  up- 
holder of  teetotalism,  in  practice  not  less  than 
precept,  that  Knockagar  had  ever  known;  and  as 
Pat  the  Public — so  called  because  he  kept  the 
chief  public-house  in  all  that  part  of  the  country — 
supported  himself  and  his  family  by  dispensing 
— wholesale  to  the  smaller  public-houses  of  the 
country,  and  retail  to  everyone  who  asked  for  it — 
that  liquor  which  Mr.  M’Cracken  was  all  his  life 
discountenancing,  Pat’s  magnanimity  was  signal; 
and  it  was  infectious,  too,  for  everyone  vied  with 
the  other,  and  Catholic  vied  with  Presbyterian, 
Methodist  with  Protestarlt,  in  there  and  then  sub- 
scribing all  that  their  slender  means  would  permit 
them — and  more — and  taking  over,  in  Mr. 
M’Cracken’s  name,  the  ownership  of  Pat  the  Pub- 
lic’s retired  racer — by  himself  trained  upon  the 
road  for  the  past  three  years — and  Pat’s  new  trap. 

Then  they  coerced  their  beloved  pastor  into 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


64 

assuming  the  ownership  of  an  animal  which, 
through  eyes  misty  with  gratitude,  still  seemed  to 
him  rather  a white  elephant  than  a chestnut  horse. 

“The  Largymore  people,”  Pat  proclaimed, 
when  the  present  was  being  made,  “must  not  be 
given  to  understand,  to  our  shame,  that  we  have 
left  this  poor  old  man  to  trudge  through  mud  and 
mire  all  the  days  of  his  life  till  now,  without 
having  a horse  and  trap  of  his  own.  They  must 
carry  away  with  them  the  impression  that  Mr. 
M’Cracken  and  this  horse  and  trap  grew  up  to- 
gether, and  have  been  bosom  companions  as  long 
as  man  and  his  mother  minds.” 

And  with  all  their  hearts  the  huzzaing  crowd 
approved  of  this  grand  sentiment.  It  was  in  vain 
for  poor  Mr.  M’Cracken  to  remonstrate,  and 
point  out  that  this  would  be  untruthful.  Pat  asked 
him  to  make  his  mind  easy  on  that  point. 

“You,  Mr.  M’Cracken,”  Pat  said,  “will  be 
asked  to  tell  no  untruth — because  it  would  be 
again’  your  trade.  And  you  must  understand  that, 
in  the  creelfuls  of  sins  every  man  in  this  multitude 
carries  on  his  conscience,  a lie  more  or  less  will 
make  small  differ ; for  it  is  like  when  the  herrings 
are  plenty — the  wee  ones  are  always  thrown  in 
without  being  reckoned  in  the  count.” 

Mr.  M’Cracken’s  conscience  stung  him  to  fur- 
ther remonstrance;  but  for  once  the  voice  of  Pat 


THE  MINISTER’S  RACEHORSE  65 

the  Public  carried  more  weight  with  the  parish  of 
Knockagar  than  did  that  of  their  well-loved  pas- 
tor. 

“To  perfect  him  in  the  art  of  handling  Pit- 
tolemy” — he  called  the  racer  Ptolemy — “I  will 
devote  the  next  three  days  to  teaching  Mr. 
M’Cracken,”  Pat  informed  his  neighbors.  And 
since  Mr.  M’Cracken  must  use  the  animal  now 
that  he  had  taken  it,  he  consented  to  place  him- 
self under  Pat’s  tuition. 

Pat  took  him,  with  the  horse  and  trap,  to 
an  out-of-the-way  mountain  road,  and  taught  him 
the  art  of  trotting,  galloping,  and  walking,  im- 
pressing upon  him  the  fact  that  he  was  never  to 
let  a horse  pass  him,  or  the  old  instinct  would  be 
aroused  in  the  racer,  and  he  couldn’t  hold  him  in 
after.  And  Mr.  M’Cracken,  getting  alarmed  upon 
this  point,  had  his  fears  quieted  again,  he  being 
assured  that  there  wasn’t  a horse  in  the  parish 
would  attempt  to  pass  Pittolemy,  barrin’  Andy 
M’Golrick’s  pony,  of  Altnamard.  For  Andy  and 
his  pony  were  the  only  ill-mannered  pair  in  the 
parish,  the  bad  manners  consisting — in  Pat’s  eyes 
— of  Andy  and  his  pony  persisting  for  the  past 
twelve  months  “in  having  the  impertinence  to 
think”  that  they  were  fit  to  outrun  himself  and  Pit- 
tolemy. 

An  apt  pupil,  and  a properly  qualified  driver, 


66 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


Pat  pronounced  Mr.  M’Cracken  when  he  handed 
him  over  the  reins  of  office  on  the  Saturday  night 
preceding  the  coming  of  the  elders. 

“There’s  no  reason  in  the  wide  world,”  Pat 
said  to  him,  “why  the  Largymore  men  needn’t 
think  but  you  have  been  driving  this  horse  and 
trap  since  the  day  after  you  left  the  cradle.  If 
you  give  them  to  understand  otherwise,”  Pat  as- 
serted, “I  will  be  sorry,  Mr.  M’Cracken;  but  I 
will  have  to  strike  your  name  off  my  list  of 
friends.”  And  the  large  crowd  of  neighbors 
who  were  assembled  around  Pat  and  Mr. 
M’Cracken  emphatically  approved  of  Pat’s  re- 
marks. “We  ask  you  to  tell  no  lie,”  said  Pat, 
“for  it  would  be  unseemly  in  a man  of  your  busi- 
ness. I only  ask  you  to  keep  your  mouth  shut; 
and  the  Bible  never  yet  was  printed  that  makes 
out  to  be  a lie  what  a man  never  said.” 

It  was  quite  useless  for  poor  Mr.  M’Cracken 
to  try  to  alter  this,  the  popular  opinion,  for  the 
subtleties  of  theology  were  quite  lost  upon  Pat 
and  his  friends. 

The  Largymore  elders  arrived  that  very  night; 
and  so  searching  and  so  insistent  were  the  eyes  of 
these  grave  men  that  Mr.  M’Cracken  was  quickly 
placed  in  the  predicament  of  having  to  volunteer 
the  explanation  of  his  red  nose,  an  explanation 


THE  MINISTER’S  RACEHORSE  67 

with  which  they  deigned  to  appear  satisfied.  Next 
day  in  church  they  sat  through  the  service  and 
through  the  sermon,  maintaining  that  ostenta- 
tiously severe  aspect  which  can  be  successfully  af- 
fected only  by  those  whose  salvation  is  already  se- 
cured, and  who  know  it. 

Their  aggressive  spiritual  superiority  awakened 
the  profound  sympathy  of  all  his  hearers  for  poor, 
humble  Mr.  M’Cracken.  And  he  needed  it,  for 
indeed  he  was  unnerved  in  endeavoring  in  his 
own  humble  way  to  interpret  the  Word  in  the 
presence  of  those  to  whom  the  great  Bible  mys- 
teries were  as  plain  as  the  multiplication-table. 

Yet,  by  God’s  help  and  the  whole-souled  sym- 
pathy of  his  hearers,  he  struggled  through  ser- 
vice and  sermon  with  some  credit,  even  if  not 
with  unqualified  success,  so  that  the  two  elders 
from  Largymore  condescended  to  bow  their  heads 
in  token  of  approval. 

Mr.  M’Cracken  and  his  whole  congregation 
drew  a long  breath  of  relief. 

Yet,  his  call  to  Largymore  being  thus  assured, 
now  more  than  ever  was  he  in  a state  of  fearful 
trepidation,  for  he  felt  certain  that  he  was  not  a 
God-fearing  enough,  pious  enough,  spiritual 
enough  man  to  minister  to  such  exalted  souls;  but 
still  he  remembered  the  Biblical  injunction,  and 


68  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

looked  not  back,  having  put  his  hand  to  the 
plow. 

Early  on  Monday  morning,  to  go  the  rounds  of 
his  great  parish,  Ptolemy  and  the  trap  were  drawn 
out,  and  Mr.  M’Cracken,  with  the  two  elders, 
took  their  seats,  while  an  earnest  gathering  of 
Mr.  M’Cracken’s  friends  stood  around;  and  Pat 
the  Public,  holding  the  animal  by  the  bridle  and 
affectionately  patting  his  neck,  informed  the  grave 
gentlemen  from  Largymore,  to  Mr.  M’Cracken’s 
manifest  uneasiness — for  he  wriggled  in  his  seat 
— that  this  was  the  finest  horse  ever  stood  in  Mr. 
M’Cracken’s  stable;  that  the  minister  hadn’t 
owned  him  for  quite  seven  years  yet  (it  was 
in  thoughtful  consideration  of  Mr.  M’Cracken’s 
conscience  that  Pat  deigned  to  put  his  lie  in  this 
truthful  form),  and  that  he  would  not  part  with 
him  for  gold. 

He  warned  them  that  they  would  find  Mr. 
M’Cracken  “a  dandy  man  behind  a horse.  But 
then,”  Pat  added,  “the  divil  thank  him  for  that.” 
(Mr.  M’Cracken  squirmed,  and  the  elders  looked 
grave  at  Pat’s  enormity.)  The  all-unconscious 
Pat  repeated:  “Divil  thank  him,  says  I;  for  if  any 
of  us  had  the  same  experience  of  him,  or  even  one 
half  of  it,  and  had  as  good  a horse  for  so  long, 
we  would  deserve  to  be  tarred  and  feathered  if 


THE  MINISTER’S  RACEHORSE  69 

we  didn’t  know  how  to  make  him  laive  the  road 
behind  him.” 

Mr.  M’Cracken  was  struggling  to  dissociate 
himself  from  Pat’s  falsehoods.  Pat  had  antici- 
pated this,  and  was  prepared;  so,  without  giving 
him  another  moment,  he  said,  “Head  off,  Pit- 
tolemy!”  And  he  thrust  the  reins,  and  the  re- 
sponsibility of  the  horse  and  trap  and  elders, 
upon  the  poor  minister,  effectively  shutting  off  his 
disclaimers,  as  he  well  knew  it  should;  for 
Ptolemy  stretched  himself  to  the  road  with  a will, 
and  immediately  all  of  Mr.  M’Cracken’s  concen- 
tration of  mind  was  requisitioned  for  the  very 
serious  business  on  hand. 

Ptolemy  trotted  along  at  a spanking  pace  that 
delighted  the  elders,  who,  unworldly  as  they  might 
be,  still  knew  how  to  appreciate  a clean  piece  of 
horseflesh;  and  in  turn  that  even  delighted  Mr. 
M’Cracken  himself.  Quickly  and  smoothly  he 
went  up  hill  and  down  dale — needing  no  whip  and 
little  reins — till,  after  having  run  for  a mile  and 
a half,  the  animal  suddenly  drew  in,  despite  great 
efforts  to  the  contrary  of  Mr.  M’Cracken — drew 
in,  and  pulled  up  by  a large  thatched  wayside  shop 
— drew  up  with  a sudden  jerk  that  almost  shot  the 
elders  from  the  trap.  When  they  recovered  them- 
selves they  read  the  sign,  the  legend  upon  which 
ran: 


70 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


“Peter  John  Maguire, 

Licensed  to  sell  whisky,  wines,  and  beer  for  con- 
sumption on  the  premises. 

Licensed  not  to  sell  on  Sundays.” 

In  some  little  consternation  they  said: 

“Mr.  M’Cracken,  is  this  one  of  your  hearers?” 
Mr.  M’Cracken,  as  he  still  pulled  and  tugged 
at  Ptolemy  to  get  him  to  depart,  replied,  in  some 
confusion: 

“Oh,  no,  no!” 

Peter  John  Maguire,  meantime,  had  run  out 
in  his  shirt-sleeves  and  welcomed  Mr.  M’Cracken, 
and  was  entreating  himself  and  his  friends  to 
come  in  and  have  the  best  that  his  house  could  af- 
ford. The  elders  repaid  poor  Peter  John’s  kind- 
ness with  their  very  severest  look,  and  Mr. 
M’Cracken  appealed  to  him  to  do  him  the  kind- 
ness of  leading  the  horse  out  and  setting  him  on 
the  road  again,  which,  after  much  vain  remon- 
strance, Peter  John  did,  and  Ptolemy  and  his 
load  were  off  once  more.  But  on  the  trap  there 
was  maintained  a silence  that  struck  a chill  to 
poor  Mr.  M’Cracken’s  heart. 

It  was  only  with  a great  deal  of  forceful  per- 
suasion that  Mr.  M’Cracken  could  induce  the  ani- 
mal to  pause  when  at  length  they  did  reach  the 


THE  MINISTER’S  RACEHORSE  71 

house  of  a genuine  hearer.  But  the  next  time 
that  Ptolemy  stopped  he  did  so,  not  merely  un- 
solicited, but  again  very  much  against  Mr. 
M’Cracken’ s will  and  power  of  arm.  The  elders, 
to  their  shocked  surprise,  discovered  that  he  had 
again  pulled  up  at  a country  shop,  the  sign  upon 
which  read: 

“Barney  Dunnion, 

Licensed  for  the  sale  of  wine,  spirits,  beer,  and 
tobacco,  to  be  consumed  on  the  premises.  Li- 
censed to  sell  on  Sundays.” 

The  proprietor  was  out,  and  was  clothed  in 
welcoming  smiles  at  the  sight  of  good  old  Mr. 
M’Cracken,  and  was  as  pressing  in  kind  offers  of 
hospitality  as  had  been  Peter  John  Maguire  some 
distance  back.  But  Mr.  M’Cracken,  far  from  ac- 
cepting the  offer,  was  in  a fever  to  get  off.  He  in- 
duced Barney  to  aid  him  by  leading  forth  the 
horse,  which  service  Barney  at  length  did.  But 
when  Barney,  having  headed  him  upon  the  road, 
again  let  go  his  hold  of  the  bridle,  Ptolemy  looked 
back,  disappointed,  over  his  shoulder  before  he  re- 
sumed his  trot  again. 

The  elders  only  coughed.  Mr.  M’Cracken  per- 
spired; and  from  mental  tension  the  veins  on  the 
good  man’s  forehead  stood  out.  In  due  course 


72 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


the  horse  volunteered  a halt,  once  more,  at  a 
house  where  the  sign  read: 

“Laurence  P.  Gaffikin, 

Licensed  for  the  sale  of  spirituous  liquors,  wine, 
ale,  or  tobacco,  to  be  consumed  on  or  off  the 
premises.  Licensed  to  sell  on  weekdays  and 
on  Sundays.” 

When  the  elders  had  put  up  their  glasses  and 
read  this  sign,  they  then  looked  over  the  glasses 
at  each  other. 

“Ahem!”  they  remarked. 

And  it  was  only  through  the  united  efforts  of 
Mr.  M’Cracken  and  Laurence  P.  that  Ptolemy 
was  seduced  upon  the  road  once  more. 

The  perspiration  was  standing  upon  the  brow 
of  Mr.  M’Cracken  when  he  took  the  road  again. 
He  had  now  all  the  powers  of  his  mind  bent  upon 
the  animal.  He  passed  many  of  the  houses  of 
his  chief  hearers,  absolutely  forgetting  their  ex- 
istence. When  he  came  in  the  neighborhood  of 
another  public-house  his  nervousness  was  intensi- 
fied, and  with  all  his  might  and  main  he  strove  to 
win  past  on  the  off-side  of  the  road;  but,  lightly 
disregarding  his  striving,  Ptolemy  wheeled  in,  and 
pulled  up  at  the  publican’s  door.  Whether  the 
liquor,  in  this  case,  was  to  be  consumed  on  or  off 


THE  MINISTER’S  RACEHORSE  73 

the  premises,  and  whether  on  a Sunday  or  a week- 
day, the  elders  were  too  much  overcome  to  ob- 
serve; they  simply  glanced  at  the  sign,  and  then, 
chorusing  a groan,  lay  back  on  their  seats,  with 
bowed  heads,  while  Mr.  M’Cracken  and  the  pub- 
lican sorely  strove  and  argued  with  Ptolemy 
again. 

Mr.  M’Cracken  breathed  a prayer  of  gratitude 
when  at  length  he  had  Ptolemy  upon  the  home- 
run  with  not  more  than  two  public  houses  be- 
tween him  and  his  journey’s  end;  and  he  was  get- 
ting along  smoothly,  and  feeling  that  he  might 
soon  have  time  and  nerve  to  explain  matters  to 
the  speechless  ones  who  now  sat  by  his  side,  when, 
as  ill-luck  would  have  it,  out  from  a by-road 
dashed  a pony  and  trap,  which,  turning,  sped  on 
ahead  of  them  at  a spanking  pace.  And  at  that 
moment  Ptolemy  threw  back  his  head  and  set 
his  ears,  and  went  off  like  a shot.  The  man  driv- 
ing the  first  car  looked  round.  It  was  Andy 
M’Golrick  of  Altnamard,  driving  his  pony,  the 
only  surviving  rival  of  Pat  the  Public’s  Ptolemy. 

The  elders,  who  for  a long  time  past  had  main- 
tained a painful  silence,  now  for  the  first  time 
spoke,  begging  of  Mr.  M’Cracken,  for  all  sakes, 
to  hold  in  his  animal;  but  Mr.  M’Cracken  was 
powerless  even  to  answer  them.  The  rate  had 
increased  so,  and  the  trap  had  so  begun  to  hop 


74 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


and  bound,  that  Mr.  M’Cracken,  still  tightening 
the  rein,  was  compelled  to  crouch  forward  and 
take  firm  grip  upon  the  rail  in  front  of  him,  giv- 
ing the  effect  of  one  who  was  eagerly  throwing  all 
his  spirit  into  the  race.  To  add  to  the  poor  man’s 
other  woes,  a terrific  rattle  and  crashing  began  in 
the  enclosure  under  the  seat,  and  then  he  knew 
well  that  Pat  the  Public  had  forgotten  to  remove 
his  “empties”  on  handing  him  over  the  trap. 

Faster  and  faster  Andy  M’Golrick  put  his 
pony  to  it,  and  faster  and  faster  still  went  Mr. 
M’Cracken  with  his;  and  earnestly  and  more 
earnestly  did  the  Largymore  elders,  gripping  fast 
by  the  readiest  holds,  now  beg  and  beseech  of  the 
minister  to  desist  from  such  a foolish  race,  for  if 
he  didn’t  their  necks  would  surely  be  broken.  But 
poor  Mr.  M’Cracken  heeded  them  not — it  is  even 
doubtful  if  he  heard  them.  He  was  holding  like 
grim  death  himself — holding  at  once  both  reins 
and  staying-rail — and  his  eyes  and  all  his  at- 
tention seemed  fixed  far  ahead. 

The  quarrymen  galloped  down  from  the  Alt- 
beg  quarry,  and  the  harvesters  and  the  shearers 
on  the  hillside  threw  down  their  hooks  in  the 
corn,  and  ran  to  the  road  to  cheer  him  on. 

“Boul’  Mr.  M’Cracken,”  they  said.  “My 
brave  fellow!  Go  it — go  it!  Who’d  have 
thought  ye  had  the  pluck  in  ye?  Houl’  on  to  it 


THE  MINISTER’S  RACEHORSE  75 

like  that,  an’  you’ll  soon  bate  the  divil  out  of 
Andy  M’Golrick  and  his  pony!” 

Closer  and  closer  upon  Andy  he  had  crept,  and 
at  length  he  shouted  upon  him  to  clear  the  way; 
but  to  Andy  it  was  mortification  enough  to  be 
overtaken,  without  having  to  yield  the  road  to  his 
rival.  He  scorned  to  do  it,  and  obstinately  held 
on  to  the  middle  course.  Ptolemy  overtook  him, 
and  would  have  swept  past  had  not  the  wheel  of 
the  trap  and  the  side  of  Andy  M’Golrick’ s car 
collided.  There  was  a breathless  instant  or  two, 
during  which  the  two  vehicles  ran  upon  a grand 
total  of  two  wheels;  and  the  next  instant,  with  a 
clatter  and  a clang,  with  the  despairing  cries  of 
the  elders,  and  amid  a regular  storm  of  empty 
bottles,  the  trap  and  its  occupants  were  overturned 
into  a plowed  field  by  the  roadside. 

After  a minute,  Mr.  M’Cracken,  from  where 
he  lay,  summoning  up  courage  to  open  his  eyes, 
saw  his  two  Largymore  friends  laid  prone  amidst 
scattered  liquor-bottles,  from  the  labels  of  which, 
despite  their  evident  sufferings,  they  were  spelling 
out  such  inscriptions  as:  “Good  old  Inishowen,” 
“Magennis’s  seven-year  old  Coleraine,”  and  “For 
all  mortal  ills,  including  toothache,  try  Peter 
Maguire’s  special  old  malt  whisky.” 

Mr.  M’Cracken  turned  over  with  a groan, 
closed  his  eyes,  and  wished  in  his  heart  that  he 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


76 

was  closing  his  eyes  for  ever  more  upon  this  world 
of  ill-luck,  woe,  and  misery. 

As  he  lay  in  his  bed  at  home,  recovering  from 
the  shock  (which,  after  all,  was  more  mental  than 
physical)  not  the  least  sincere  sympathizer  that 
called  was  Pat  the  Public,  who  cheerfully  assured 
him  that  he  was  gladder  than  a hundred  pounds  in 
gold  that  the  minister  had  overtaken  that  impident 
scamp  Andy  M’Golrick,  and  taiched  him  the  les- 
son that  he  did ! 

“I  was  a proud  and  a happy  man,  Mr. 
M’Cracken — an’  so  should  you  be — to  see  you 
carried  home,  an’  them  Largymore  men  carried 
away  to  the  country  they  come  from;  for  you 
l’arnt  Andy  M’Golrick  a lesson  in  manners  that 
he’ll  not  forget  for  a month  o’  Sundays,  and 
gained  the  victory  for  Pittolomey  at  a dirt-cheap 
price.” 

Quickly  came  the  news  that  Largymore  was 
looking  for  a minister  elsewhere. 

Mr.  M’Cracken,  rejoiced  to  find  that,  after  all, 
he  was  not  to  leave  the  people  of  his  heart’s  love, 
besought  his  hearers  and  friends  to  sell  his  horse 
and  trap,  and  divide  the  proceeds  among  the  poor 
of  Knockagar. 


y 


THE  CASE  OF  KITTY  KILDEA 
OR  all  Kitty  Kildea  hadn’t  a bonny  face 


(Barney  Brian  informed  the  neighbors 


when  he  come  back  from  his  visit  to  the 
States)  she  had  as  bonny  a heart  as  was  to  be 
found  atween  Americay’s  shores — and  that  was 
a big  word.  And  (Barney  added  in  a whisper, 
which  expressed  at  one  and  the  same  time  secrecy, 
amusement,  and  admiration) — Kitty’s  as  proud 
as  Lucifer — she  is. 

Barney  was  pretty  correct  in  his  estimate. 
Kitty’s  share  of  physical  beauty,  sure  enough,  was 
emphasized  by  its  absence.  She  was  short  and 
bunty,  and  walked  with  a waddle.  Her  face  was 
dried  and  wrinkled — as,  indeed,  it  might  well  be, 
for,  as  Micky  Malloy  remarked  when  Barney  told 
them  of  her,  “She’s  wore  that  face  as  long  as  I 
mind” ; and  the  neighbors  unanimously  agreed 
that  Micky  minded  fifty-five  years,  if  he 
minded  a day.  Moreover,  Kitty’s  left  eye 
had  a particularly  comical  squint,  which  looked 
so  out  of  place  in  a countenance  so  grave  and  so 


77 


78  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

sedate  that  it  often  prompted  a casual  acquain- 
tance to  laugh — a casual  acquaintance.  Kitty’s 
bonnet  and  dress,  too,  were  maybe  a bit  odd  and 
old-fashioned;  they  were  always  black,  but  she 
tried  to  enliven  them  with  one  or  two  fantastic 
ribbons  that  almost  completed  the  uniform  oddity 
of  Kitty  Kildea.  Almost;  for  it  was  never  really 
completed  till  she  adopted  her  umbrella,  and  sal- 
lied down  Fifth  Avenue.  This  umbrella  had  been 
venerable  a decade  before;  it  was  bundled  and 
bound  with  a long  black  boot-lace,  whose  ends 
waved  about  in  a manner  that  no  other  mortal  but 
Kitty  could  contrive,  and  carried  in  a fashion  that 
no  other  save  Kitty  Kildea  could  carry  it;  and, 
storm  or  shine,  rain,  hail  or  snow,  the  umbrella 
and  Kitty  were  such  inseparable  out-of-door  com- 
panions that  she  would  as  readily  have  dreamt  of 
going  down  Fifth  Avenue  barefooted  as  empty- 
handed. 

And  when  Kitty  Kildea — with  the  umbrella — 
did  walk  down  Fifth  Avenue,  there  was  no  higher 
head  (morally  speaking)  in  all  of  the  parading 
throng. 

It’s  true  that  her  youth  had  slipped  away  from 
Kitty,  and  her  (very  modest)  show  of  beauty; 
but  there  was  one  quality  that  never  did  and  never 
could  desert  her — that  was  her  indomitably  proud 
spirit.  She  looked  upon  Kitty  Kildea  as  the  equal 


THE  CASE  OF  KITTY  KILDEA  79 

of  any  woman  or  man  outside  Ireland.  And, 
without  being  too  strikingly  ostentatious  on  the 
point,  she  could  make  anyone  whose  presumption 
earned  for  them  the  reminder,  instantly  feel  it  in 
the  atmosphere. 

Strangely  enough,  it  was  this  very  quality  of 
poor  Kitty’s  that  suddenly  wrought  her  down- 
fall. For,  after  having  borne  on  her  shoulders 
for  thirty-three  years — ever  since  her  second  year 
in  the  States — the  cares  of  the  house  of  the  old 
bachelor,  Aaron  Boult,  she,  as  well  as  all  the 
world,  got  a shock  when  he  suddenly  introduced 
a young  wife,  and  set  her  over  Kitty’s  head.  And 
as  Kitty  was  no  way  partial  to  the  giddy  mistress, 
neither  was  she  partial  to  the  tribe  and  type  of 
men  that  then  began  to  make  her — Kitty’s — 
house  their  resort.  And  when  at  length  she  was, 
against  her  will,  driven  into  giving  this  young 
woman  a deserved  and  dignified  snub  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  bunch  of  the  men  referred  to,  Aaron 
Boult,  excited  and  angered  at  her  by  the  tears  of 
the  young  woman  (with  whom  he  was  infatu- 
ated), had  spoken  angrily  to  Kitty  Kildea — for 
the  first  time  in  three-and-thirty  years — and  with 
stern  words  and  a hard  face  had  given  her  a dis- 
missal from  his  services.  Stern  words  he  cer- 
tainly spoke,  and  a hard  face  he  showed,  though 
Jenny,  who  had  been  Kitty’s  subordinate,  was  able 


8o 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


to  tell  that  after  Kitty  had  said  to  him  a cold 
but  dignified  “Good-bye”  and,  in  the  wake  of  a 
bonnet-box  and  a pathetic-looking  tin  case, 
marched  with  the  dignity  of  a queen  out  of  the 
house  where  she  had  for  three-and-thirty  years 
made  him  a true  home,  he  broke  down  and  cried 
like  a baby. 

Kitty  had  mighty  little  left  of  the  world’s 
wealth — by  reason  of  her  two  glaring  faults,  an 
open  heart  and  an  open  hand.  And  no  boy  or 
girl  from  Home,  when  misfortune  overtook  them, 
ever  wanted  while  Kitty  had  it.  Five  score  of 
grateful  friends,  now,  when  they  heard  of  Kitty’s 
misfortune,  threw  open  both  their  doors  and  their 
purses  to  her.  That  she  had  such  loyal  friends 
made  Kitty’s  soul  glad,  but  her  pride  would  not 
permit  her  to  take  advantage  of  any  such  offers. 
She  just  shook  the  venerable  umbrella  at  them 
and  waddled  away  to  engage  her  own  lodgings. 

Now  Kitty  had  a brother,  Rodgie,  at  home  in 
Ireland,  who  had  stayed  there  and  slipped  into 
their  father’s  possessions — for  Kitty  was  above 
claiming  a part — when  the  old  man  died. 

And  some  well-meaning  ones  suggested  to  Kitty, 
“Why  not  go  home  and  spend  the  rest  of  your  life 
in  the  aise  ye  have  earned,  in-under  Rodgie’s  roof, 
who  owes  ye  a deal  more  than  your  keep  if  ye 
claimed  it?”  But  Kitty  scorned  the  idea.  For 


THE  CASE  OF  KITTY  KILDEA  81 


Rodgie’s  mistress  was  master  in  that  house,  and, 
as  she  had  been  a moneyed  woman,  the  daughter 
of  a moneyed  man,  she  had  considered  poor  re- 
lations with  supreme  contempt;  and,  since  Rod- 
gie’s sister,  Kitty,  was  a “menial” — so  Mrs. 
Rodgie  put  it — in  America,  she  had  long  ago  made 
her  husband  scratch  Kitty’s  name  out  of  the  fam- 
ily records.  ’Twas  little  wonder  that  poor  proud 
Kitty  should  revolt  at  the  idea  of  going  home  to 
live  in  that  woman’s  house  then;  and  that  she’d 
prefer,  instead,  to  face  the  dire  want  that  now 
stared  her  in  the  face  in  America. 

But  Barney  Brian  had  just  arrived  home  from 
the  States;  and  Barney  Brian  was  one  of  the  very 
last  boys  whom  poor  Kitty  had  helped  before  she 
lost  her  place.  He  knew,  too — what  all  the 
American  world  knew — that  it  was  Kitty’s  noble- 
souled  generosity  that  now  left  her  on  the  thresh- 
old of  poverty;  and  as  Barney  Brian,  good- 
hearted  ne’er-do-well  that  he  was,  could  not  make 
her  any  pecuniary  return — even  if,  for  a moment, 
he  could  dare  to  think  she  would  take  it — he  sud- 
denly conceived  a brilliant  idea,  as  it  appeared  to 
him,  for  bettering  poor  Kitty’s  position. 

A brilliant  one  I suppose  it  really  was,  though 
it  was  an  idea  peculiarly  after  the  fashion  of 
Barney’s  own  peculiar  morals. 

And  in  furtherance  of  the  idea,  on  the  very 


82 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


second  day  after  Knockagar  had,  with  acclama- 
tion as  noisy  as  it  was  sincere,  received  the  prodi- 
gal into  its  arms  again,  and  killed  the  fatted  calf 
(which  was  in  this  case  a goose),  Barney  jour- 
neyed forth,  making  Rodgie  Kildea’s  of  Alta- 
mard  his  objective.  And,  having  arrived  there, 
he  rushed  in  with  all  the  joyous  demonstration  he 
could  muster. 

“Arrah,  Mrs.  Kildea,  a mkuirin said  he,  seiz- 
ing both  her  hands  and  wringing  them,  “but  it’s 
meself’s  a glad  man  to  see  your  handsome,  kindly 
face  again;  for,  in  troth,  few  I saw  like  it  since 
the  last  tear  I dropped  outside  your  door — the 
night  a’fore  I left  Ireland.” 

And  all  this'  time  he  retained  his  firm  grip  on 
the  hands  of  Mrs.  Kildea,  working  them  up  and 
down  like  pump  handles.  To  such  a surpassing 
amount  of  enthusiasm,  Mrs.  Kildea  was  forced  to 
be  responsive.  While  she  hurried  herself  in  pre- 
paring a repast  for  Barney,  she  was  eager  in  her 
inquiries  after  Barney’s  health  and  happiness,  and 
the  health  and  happiness  of  all  the  friends  he  left 
behind  him  in  the  States. 

And  Barney  gave  glowing  accounts  of  his 
friends.  “There’s  Rodgie’s  sister,  Kitty,  too,” 
he  said,  “that  ye’ve  forgot  about.”  Mrs.  Kildea’s 
figure  instantly — Barney  was  noting  with  the  tail 
of  his  eye — stiffened  with  all  the  dormant  dignity 


THE  CASE  OF  KITTY  KILDEA  83 

of  her  father’s  daughter.  But  Barney  went  on 
as  if  he  did  not  dream  of  anything  amiss:  “And 
if  there’s  one  from  home  who  is  a credit  to  the 
country  she  left  it’s  Kitty;  or  if  there’s  one  who 
has  thriven  well,  and  put  a pile  together,  it’s  her.’’ 
Barney  did  not  fail  to  observe  the  relaxing  process 
that  Mrs.  Kildea’s  figure  suddenly  underwent. 
But  he  gave  no  sign  of  noting  anything  beyond  the 
good  things  on  the  table  to  which  he  was  doing 
not  merely  justice  but  injustice — for,  after  the 
seasickness,  Barney’s  appetite  was  like  a razor’s 
edge. 

“Three-and-thirty  years  Kitty  sarved  the  one 
masther.  For  the  last  twinty  years  he  could  no 
more  do  without  her  than  he  could  do  without  the 
back  of  his  head;  and  it’s  shockin’,  I b’lieve,  the 
wages  he  was  giving  her.  It’s  sayed — but  meself 
can’t  swear  whether  it’s  true  or  not — that  the  com- 
pany she  was  in  the  habit  of  bankin’  her  wages 
with  at  last  refused  to  take  any  more  from  her 
for  fear  she’d  break  them  if  she’d  suddenly  take 
the  notion  to  withdraw.”  Mrs.  Kildea  had  pulled 
a chair  close  to  Barney  and  was  listening  open- 
mouthed.  “So,”  said  Barney,  “she  had  to  begin 
puttin’  her  wages  into  rale  estate.  The  finest  part 
of  it  all  is,”  said  he,  “that  Kitty,  with  all  her 
wealth,  is  as  plain  as  you  or  me.” 

Under  other  circumstances  Mrs.  Kildea  would 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


84 

have  frozen  at  this  phrase,  but  she  heeded  it  not 
now.  She  was  mighty  interested  in  Barney’s  story. 

“As  plain,”  said  Barney,  “as  you,  ma’am,  or 
me. — And  now,  as  she  consithered  she  had  more 
money  made  than  she  knew  what  to  do  with” — 
Barney’s  audience  was  engrossed  in  his  words — 
“and  as  the  age  is  failin’  on  her  fast,  she  has  re- 
tired from  sarvice  and  is  intendin’  to  live,  in  aise 
and  comfort,  on  the  inthrust  of  her  money  for 
the  remainder  of  her  natural  life;  and  the  Lord 
only  knows  what  she’ll  do  with  her  money  then.” 
Mrs.  Kildea  craned  her  neck  forward.  “But,” 
Barney  said  coolly,  “it’s  the  opinion  that  she’ll 
lave  it  to  the  Bishop  o’  Brooklyn  (and  a’tween 
you  an’  me  he’s  keepin’  close  tack  to  Kitty)  to 
help  him  put  a belfry  on  his  chapel.  And  I sup- 
pose, afther  all,  that’s  about  the  best  use  she  could 
put  it  to,”  and  Barney  looked  up  to  Mrs.  Kildea 
for  approval. 

“Barney  Brian,”  said  Mrs.  Kildea,  straighten- 
ing herself,  “it  would  ill  be  Kitty’s  jcomin’,  to  fire 
her  little  grain  of  gatherin’  into  the  Bishop’s 
belfry  when  she  has  her  brother  Rodgie  in  Ire- 
land puttin’  the  bone  through  the  skin  tryin’  to 
maintain  his  little  family  in  dacency.” 

“Upon  my  word,”  said  Barney  with  alacrity, 
“and  sure  it’s  right  ye  are.  Meself  never  looked 
at  it  in  that  way.” 


THE  CASE  OF  KITTY  KILDEA  85 

“I’ve  set  me  heart  on  makin’  me  family  re- 
spectable,” said  Mrs.  Kildea,  “above  the  com- 
mon families  of  the  parish.  I want  to  make  an 
attorney  of  Brian,  turn  Peter  into  a doctor,  and 
make  a priest  of  wee  Johnnie. — And  look,”  she 
said,  “what  a couple  of  hundred  pounds  of  Kitty 
Kildea’s  money  would  do  there ! It’ll  be  a black 
shame  for  her,  and  a sin  on  her  soul,  if  she  goes 
throwin’  her  lock  of  money  into  a belfry  and 
them  that,  by  thickness  of  blood,  she  owes  it  to, 
losin’  their  rights  for  the  want  of  it. — Barney 
Brian,”  she  said,  “am  I right?” 

“Ma’am,”  said  Barney,  pushing  from  him  his 
cup  and  saucer,  wiping  his  mouth  and  crossing 
himself  in  thanksgiving,  “Ma’am,”  he  said, 
“you’re  right,  as  you  always  are.  It  would  be  a 
shame,  sure  enough,  for  Kitty — a black  shame.  I 
seen  wee  Johnnie,  more  by  the  same  token,  box 
a clane  ’round  at  the  end  of  the  school  lane  as  I 
come  here,  and  lavin’  a pair  of  as  purty  black  eyes 
as  you’d  wish  to  see  with  a lad  that  was  double 
his  size.  He’s  a brave  chap,  good  luck  to  him! 
an’ll  make  a darlin’  fine  priest.  I wish  him  his 
health. — But,  as  I was  sayin’,  it’ll  sure  enough  be 
a black  shame  for  poor  Kitty  to  forget  her  own 
brother  and  her  own  brother’s  family;  and  the 
only  raison  why  I b’lieve  she  does  it  is  that  she 
thought  you  had  forgot  all  about  her  and  took  no 


86 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


inthrust  whatsomever  in  her — which,  I know,  was 
a parfect  misunderstandin’  on  Kitty’s  part.” 

“Is  it  forget  her?”  said  Mrs.  Kildea  with  in- 
dignant astonishment  in  her  face — “forget  her!  I 
wonder  if  she  knows  how  much  and  how  often 
meself  and  Rodgie  talk  of  her;  and  how  much  we 
wondered,  and  were  hurted  and  offended,  that 
she  never  sent  us  a scrape  of  the  pen ! And  all 
that  notwithstanding”  Mrs.  Kildea  said  magnani- 
mously, “we  had  agreed  that  when  old  age  and 
the  rheumatiz  should  come  on  her  we’d  let  her 
know  that  our  door  was  on  the  latch  to  her.” 

“See  that,  now!”  said  Barney  in  wonderment, 
and  seemingly  addressing  an  ashy-tailed  cat  that 
had  hitherto  been  taking  little  or  no  interest  in 
the  proceedings.  “See  that,  now!”  he  said.  And 
then  to  Mrs.  Kildea : “Isn’t  it  or  not  the  pity  of 
the  worl’  Kitty  didn’t  know  your  kindly  inten- 
tions?” 

“And,”  said  Mrs.  Kildea,  “it’s  manys  and 
manys  the  time  myself  and  Rodgie,  sittin’  alone 
with  our  two  selves  by  the  fire  here  of  a night, 
wished  and  wished  we  had  poor  Kitty  home  to 
us  from  among  the  cowl’  strangers,  and  sittin’ 
warm  and  happy  and  contented  in  the  corner 
there  fornenst  us.” 

“See  to  that,  now!  See  to  that,  now!”  Barney 
again  remarked  to  the  cat. 


THE  CASE  OF  KITTY  KILDEA  87 

“And,”  said  Mrs.  Kildea  with  resolve,  “as  we 
were  so  wishful  to  give  her  the  hospitality  of  our 
roof,  and  her  half  of  our  bite  and  sup  when  we 
supposed  she’d  be  poor  and  in  black  need  of  it,  I 
can’t  see  where  the  blame  or  the  shame’ll  come  in 
if  I make  her  the  same  offer  now  she’s  rich/’  And 
she  looked  a question  at  Barney,  who  replied 
quietly: 

“Neither  do  I — neither  do  I.” 

“And,”  said  Mrs.  Kildea,  “I’m  not  goin’  to 
alter  my  course  or  to  throw  any  slights  on  a girl 
whose  only  fault  is  bein’  rich. — Pity  I would, 
Barney  Brian!” 

“Just  pity  ye  would,  Mrs.  Kildea,”  Barney 
Brian  replied. 

“And  I’ll  not,”  said  Mrs.  Kildea  with  decision. 

“Brave  woman  yourself,”  said  Barney  en- 
couragingly. 

“Though,  of  course,”  said  Mrs.  Kildea,  “it 
would,  as  ye  know,  been  an  aisier  matter  for  us  to 
offer  a corner  of  our  small  share  to  a poor  and 
needy  Kitty ” 

“Of  course,  of  course,”  Barney  Brian  said. 

“Still  and  all,  we’ve  always  had'  such  great  re- 
gards for  her  that  I do  believe  we’ll  hardly  grudge 
it  to  Kitty  rich.” 

“ ’Tis  yours  was  the  warm  heart  ever,  ma’am,” 
said  Barney  admiringly.  And,  having  ascertained 


88 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


that  Mrs.  Kildea’s  eye  was  on  the  fire  reflectively, 
the  winked  at  the  cat  who  innocently  winked  back. 

“Barney  Brian,”  Mrs.  Kildea  said,  “write  me 
down  Kitty’s  address  and  I’ll  get  wee  Johnnie  to 
scrape  a line  to  her  the  morrow — plaise  God.” 

And  when  poor  Kitty  Kildea  in  her  poor  lodg- 
ings, got,  one  fine  morning,  the  warmest  and  most 
cordial  and  pressing  letter  of  invitation  one  could 
imagine,  from  her  sister-in-law,  Mrs.  Kildea,  on 
behalf  of  herself  and  her  husband,  Rodgie,  Kitty 
thought  she  was  dreaming.  But  when  she  as- 
sured herself  she  was  awake  by  counting  the  con- 
tents of  her  wrinkled  purse,  and  when,  then,  she 
contrasted  Mrs.  Kildea’s  wonderful  act  of  gener- 
osity to  her,  now  she  was  next  door  to  destitute, 
with  her  indifference  in  Kitty’s  more  opulent  days, 
she  saw  the  world  was  stocked  with  good  people 
in  disguise,  and  she  thanked  God  first,  and  Mrs. 
Kildea  afterwards.  And  though  the  proud  Kitty 
would  have  scorned  to  accept  a favor  from  her 
sister-in-law  erstwhile,  the  emphatic  cordiality  of 
the  invitation  so  wrought  upon  her  sympathies 
that  she  accepted  it  at  once,  heartily,  cordially, 
and  without  the  slightest  trepidation,  in  the  gen- 
erous spirit  of  one  bestowing,  rather  than  re- 
ceiving, a favor. 

Kitty  Kildea  sailed  home  to  Ireland,  and  was 
received  by  Rodgie  and  Mrs.  Kildea — who  jour- 


THE  CASE  OF  KITTY  KILDEA  89 

neyed  all  the  way  to  the  port  of  Derry  to  meet 
her — with  delight  and  rejoicing. 

And  Kitty  was  truly  and  innocently  happy  in 
having  found  such  loving,  even  if  long  lost,  rela- 
tives. 

And  if  Tier  delight  at  their  goodness  was  great 
at  first,  it  grew  as  the  days  flew. 

And  it  was  great  at  first,  for  they  would  not 
even  let  her  spend  a penny.  They  wouldn’t  let  her 
buy  her  dinner  in  Derry;  they  wouldn’t  let  her 
purchase  her  railway  ticket;  they  wouldn’t  even 
allow  her  to  pay  the  porter.  “Kitty  Kildea,”  her 
sister-in-law  said  with  warmth,  as  she  pushed 
aside  Kitty’s  ready  if  wrinkled  purse,  “Kitty  Kil- 
dea,” she  said,  “sure  it  isn’t  want  to  insult  me  ye 
do ! Put  away  your  purse  out  o’  that,  I tell  ye, 
or  ye’ll  have  me  flamin’  with  the  anger.”  And 
poor  Kitty,  as  she  put  away  her  little  purse, 
thought  she  could  never  be  half  grateful  enough 
to  such  a warm  and  liberal-hearted  woman. 

The  neighbors  were  all  pressed  to  visit  Kitty, 
and  feasted  in  her  honor  when  they  came.  High 
holiday  was  held  at  Altamard,  in  Rodgie  Kil- 
dea’s,  for  three  weeks  after  her  return,  till  poor 
Kitty  begged  of  them  as  a favor  to  allow  the  fes- 
tivities to  abate  (so  to  speak),  and  let  her  settle 
down  to  the  homely  content  of  Rodgie’s  kitchen 
fireside. 


go 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


It  was  very  much  against  Mrs.  Kildea’s  will 
that  Kitty  was  permitted  the  content  of  the  kitchen 
fireside,  for  she  had  planned  that  Kitty  should 
live,  as  became  her  state,  in  the  parlor;  to  which 
end  she  had  had  Eamon  Scanlan,  the  handy  man 
of  the  parish,  for  three  weeks  sawing  and  ham- 
mering there,  giving  to  it  as  nearly  as  possible 
what  she  considered  to  be  palatial  magnificence; 
and  she  had  purchased  for  it,  from  Pat  the  Ped- 
lar, a dozen  pictures  at  the  beaten-down  price  of 
sixteen  pence  ha’penny;  so  Eamon,  when  he  had 
finished  the  renovation  and  decoration,  pro- 
nounced that  “A  king  and  queen  might  come  in 
and  dhrink  their  tay  in  it,  and  be  proud.” 

So  it  was  with  great  reluctance  indeed  and 
poignant  regret  on  Mrs.  Kildea’s  part  that  Kitty 
was  allowed  to  resign  the  regal  splendors  of  the 
room,  where  it  had  been  meant  that  she  should 
remain  in  state,  for  the  homeliness  of  the  kitchen 
hearth. 

But  Kitty  must  have  the  kitchen  hearth,  and 
Kitty  had  it.  For  a woman  so  wealthy  the  sim- 
plicity of  her  taste  was  a constant  source  of  won- 
der to  Mrs.  Kildea  and  her  worthy  man  Rodgie. 

Mrs.  Kildea,  too,  noticed  how  plainly,  almost 
poorly,  Kitty  dressed.  And  it  would  have  been  a 
fretful  puzzle  to  her,  only  Rodgie  assured  her  he 
had  heard  that  was  the  way  all  rich  people  in 


THE  CASE  OF  KITTY  KILDEA  91 

the  States  did — the  richer  they  got  the  shabbier 
they  dressed;  and  the  proudest  of  them  dressed 
the  poorest  of  ail.” 

“It  is  well  known  then,”  said  Mrs.  Kildea,  “that 
Kitty  was  always  proud;  so  it’s  small  wonder  she 
should  dress  so  poorly.”  And  content  settled  in 
Mrs.  Kildea’s  heart. 

She  prompted  her  husband  to  borrow  the 
priest’s  car  as  a standing  loan,  and  his  harness 
likewise;  and  they  yoked  in  it  Rodgie’s  old  gray 
garan,  which  he  called  Tickler,  and  which,  when 
they  went  forth,  devoted  his  energies  rather  to 
retrospection  upon  the  queer  vehicle  that  trun- 
dled after  than  to  prospecting  the  roads  that  ran 
before — the  latter  lacking  all  interest  for  the  staid 
and  philosophic  animal.  Still,  “to  give  Kitty  her 
health  and  the  seein’s  of  life,”  as  Mrs.  Kildea  put 
it,  Tickler  ambled  dreamily  forth  upon  some  jour- 
ney to  the  east  or  the  west,  the  north  or  the  south, 
each  day.  And  Kitty  was  drawn  over  the  country 
to  all  points  of  the  horizon  like  a victor  on  a tri- 
umphal car.  Mrs.  Kildea  appeased  the  impatient 
Rodgie,  who  was  sore  distressed  at  the  loss  of 
many  days’  work  of  Tickler,  by  telling  him,  “Rod- 
gie, take  my  word  for  it,  that  a’fore  our  three  sons 
is  schooled  and  settled,  Kitty  Kildea’ll  pay  goold 
for  every  ride  she  rides.”  Mrs.  Kildea’s  plan  of 


92 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


campaign  was  very  perfect,  surely,  and  developed 
by  due  degrees. 

Kitty  was  three  months  at  home,  and  had  been 
treated  to  all  the  pleasures  Mrs.  Kildea  could 
dream  of,  and  all  the  honors  she  could  desire — 
honors,  indeed,  that  embarrassed  poor  Kitty  and 
burdened  her  oftener  than  they  flattered  her — 
before  her  generous  hostess  broached  family  af- 
fairs, and  proceeded  to  take  her  into  confidence 
thereon. 

“It’s  an  attorney,”  said  Mrs.  Kildea,  “that  I 
should  like  for  to  make  out  of  Brian,  and  put 
Peter  in  for  a doctor,  and  make  a priest  of  wee 
Johnnie.” 

“That,”  Kitty  said,  “would  be  splendid  en- 
tirely.” And  Mrs.  Kildea  was  watching  Kitty 
furtively. 

“Splendid — yes,”  said  Mrs.  Kildea,  “and  would 
take  a share  of  money.”  And  Mrs.  Kildea  fixed 
a sidelong  glance  upon  Kitty. 

“Yes,  yes,  surely,”  the  innocent  Kitty  replied, 
“it  would  take  a share  of  money.” 

“A  mighty  big  share,”  said  Mrs.  Kildea. 

“I  have  no  doubt  of  that,”  Kitty  replied. 

Then  Mrs.  Kildea  felt  for  a minute  like  a 
woman  who  had  unexpectedly  come  up  against  a 
blank  wall — for  a minute. 

“Yes,”  said  Mrs.  Kildea,  shaking  her  head,  “a 


THE  CASE  OF  KITTY  KILDEA  93 

power  of  money — a power  of  money  it  takes  to 
make  a priest  and  an  attorney  out  of  two  of  your 
sons,  and  put  the  other  on  for  a doctor.” 

“Indeed,  and  it’s  a big  ,undertakin’  of  ye,” 
Kitty  said  sympathetically. 

Mrs.  Kildea,  she  coughed,  and  then  paused  a 
minute  for  a reply  to  the  cough.  But  poor  Kitty, 
she  never  detected  it. 

So  Mrs.  Kildea  sighed.  Then  Kitty  sighed. 
And  Mrs.  Kildea  thereupon  looked  momentarily 
like  one  who  would  soon  be  impatient.  But  she 
recovered  herself. 

Mrs.  Kildea  looked  into  the  fire,  sighed  again 
and  remarked:  “And  money  is  purty  scarce  these 
times.” 

“Indeed,  and  sure  enough  it  is,”  Kitty  replied. 

“And  mortal  hard  to  be  got,”  said  Mrs.  Kildea. 

“True  words — true  words,  surely,”  Kitty  said. 

Kitty  Kildea  was  an  irritating  individual.  Mrs. 
Kildea  confessed  as  much  to  herself. 

“Rodgie,  poor  man,”  said  Mrs.  Kildea,  “he 
has  been  scrapin’  and  gatherin’  for  fifteen  years 
in  order  to  put  on  our  sons  for  dacent  profes- 
sions.” 

“And  I say,”  said  Kitty  deliberately,  “that  is 
very  creditable  to  Rodgie — very  creditable  en- 
tirely.” 

“And,”  continued  Mrs.  Kildea,  “after  fifteen 


94 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN 


years’  hard  scrapin’  it  looks  as  if,  after  all,  we’ll 
not  be  able  to  do  it.” 

“Ah,  don’t  say  it,”  said  Kitty  sympathetically. 
“That  would  be  too  bad.” 

Mrs.  Kildea  called  up  two  tears — wherever  she 
drew  them  from — and  (so  to  speak)  held  them 
well  in  hand,  as  if  she  could  not  afford  to  lose 
them.  She  replied:  “Hard  it  would  be,  seein’  we 
had  our  hearts  set  on  it — hard.”  And  then  she 
waited.  Kitty  Kildea  sighed  heavily  and  shook 
her  head. 

“And  it  looks,”  Mrs.  Kildea  said,  after  a little, 
“as  if,  after  all,  there’s  nothin’  better  nor  Ameri- 
cay  and  hard  work  a’fore  the  three  lads.” 

Said  Kitty,  who  was  truly  grieved  inwardly, 
“That’s  the  way  it  looks.” 

“Unless,”  said  Mrs.  Kildea,  with  a tinge  of 
aggravation  (too  slight  to  be  detected  by  the 
all-innocent  Kitty)  in  her  manner — “unless  some 
help  that  we  didn’t  draim  of  turns  up.”  And  she 
looked  hard  at  Kitty. 

“Yes,”  said  Kitty  cheerily,  “Providence  helps 
ye.  Ye’re  right,  ma’am.  Always  expect  help 
from  Providence.” 

Mrs.  Kildea  showed  unmistakable  signs  of 
provocation.  She  had  to  deal  with  a dense  wom- 
an, indeed. 

“It  would  be  more  fittinger  for  me  to  expect 


THE  CASE  OF  KITTY  KILDEA  95 

it,”  she  said,  “from  near-at-hand  friends,  wouldn’t 
it?” 

“Well,  that’s  surely  true,”  Kitty  consented. 

Mrs.  Kildea  made  another  diplomatic  pause. 
But  it  was  fruitless. 

She  resolved,  then,  to  make  a plunge. 

“And  under  the  distressful  circumstances,” 
she  said,  “it’s  a kind  friend  would  come  forrid 
(forward)  and  help.”  Kitty  Kildea  must  now 
declare  herself.  There  was  no  escape,  Mrs.  Kil- 
dea believed. 

Said  Kitty,  “Indeed,  and  it’s  so,”  and  shook 
her  head. 

Mrs.  Kildea  was  flabbergasted.  And  no  won- 
der. 

Kitty  said  further,  “But  a’tween  yourself  and 
myself  and  the  bedpost — not  to  let  it  go  no  fur- 
ther— one  may  expect  more  kicks  than  kind 
friends  in  this  world,  people  say.” 

The  audacity  of  the  woman  took  poor  Mrs. 
Kildea’s  breath  away. 

“Not,”  said  Kitty  after  a pause,  “that  it’s  my 
own  experience.  Only  what  I hear.  For  myself 
I’ve  met  with  little  else  than  kind  friends.”  Mrs. 
Kildea’s  eager  interest  was  reawakened.  “Kind 
friends,”  said  Kitty,  “both  in  America  an’  here” 
— with  marked  emphasis  on  here. 

“I’m  glad  to  hear  it.  In  troth  I’m  delighted 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


9.6 

to  hear  it,”  said  Mrs.  Kildea,  rejoicing  with  re- 
newed hope. 

“I  can  never  forget  my  kind  friends,”  Kitty 
said. 

‘‘Thanky,  thanky,  Kitty.  But  I beg  ye’ll  not 
mention  it — so  far  as  any  little  kindness  we  have 
showed  ye  is  consarned,”  said  Mrs.  Kildea  mod- 
estly. 

“And  won’t  forget  them,”  Kitty  said  decisively. 

“It’s  entirely  too  good  of  ye  to  say  so — entirely 
too  good.”  Mrs.  Kildea  was  elated  at  length. 

“Won’t  forget  them,”  repeated  Kitty  emphati- 
cally. “For  I’m  goin’  to ” 

“Oh,  Kitty,  Kitty,”  Mrs.  Kildea  protested.  “I 
entrate  of  ye  not  to  mention  or  mind  any  little 
kindness  myself  and  Rodgie  have  shown  ye.” 

“I’m  goin’  to,  as  I was  sayin’,  goin’  to  pray  for 
them  night  and  day,  in  the  next  worl’  as  well  as 
in  this  one.” 

Mrs.  Kildea  was  disgusted,  beyond  the  power 
of  poor  words  to  express. 

She  let  her  emotion  subside  before  she  said, 
as  calmly  as  she  could,  “Prayer  is  very  good  in- 
deed in  its  way.  But” — she  had  resolved  on  an- 
other plunge — “it  would  be  a mighty  long  time 
makin’  an  attorney  out  of  Brian  or  payin’  for 
the  bishopin’  of  wee  Johnnie.  There’s  for  ye!” 


THE  CASE  OF  KITTY  KILDEA  97 

she  said,  giving  her  head  a defiant  toss  that  quite 
puzzled  Kitty. 

“What  do  ye  mane?”  Kitty  said  in  bewilder- 
ment. 

“I  mean  what  I say,  Kitty  Kildea — when  ye 
make  me  speak  plain.  Myself’ll  be  mighty  grate- 
ful for  your  prayers — none  more  so.  But  when 
it  comes  to  the  educatin’  of  my  youngsters,  while 
I’ll  appreciate  your  help  in  the  shape  of  prayers, 
I’m  afeerd  I’m  haythen  enough  to  like  it  better  in 
the  shape  of  pounds. — Kitty  Kildea,  can  I put 
it  any  plainer  for  ye?” 

She  couldn’t  easily. 

It  was  now  little  Kitty’s  turn  to  toss  her  head. 
“Oh,  indeed!”  was  all  she  said,  but  there  was  a 
world  of  meaning  in  it. 

“Yes,  indeed!”  said  Mrs.  Kildea.  “And  since 
as  all  the  world  knows,  ye  have  the  pounds  near 
about  as  plentiful  as  prayers,  it  would  be  small 
shame  for  ye  to  lift  ten  or  twelve  score  o’  them 
out  o’  the  rust,  and  be  kind  to  them  that  has  been 
kind  to  you.” 

Kitty’s  face  underwent  several  interesting 
changes  as  Mrs.  Kildea  unfolded  to  her  this  start- 
ling bit  of  information. 

“Ma’am,”  said  Kitty,  “on  whose  authority,  may 
I ax,  have  ye  this?” 

“The  work  knows  it,  as  I said;  and  Barney 


98  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

Brian  toul’  it,”  said  Mrs.  Kildea  triumphantly. 

“Ma’am,”  said  Kitty,  “I’m  sorry  then  to  in- 
form ye  that  ye  have  been  wastin’  your  kindness 
upon  a pauper — through  the  rescality  of  that 
scamp,  Barney  Brian.  But  likewise,  ma’am,  ye’ll 
not  be  imposed  upon  by  this  pauper  much  longer.” 
And  Kitty  arose  in  her  dignity  and  marched  off  to 
the  room  as  stately  as  her  comical  little  figure 
would  allow.  She  gathered  her  few  things  to- 
gether into  her  box,  and  saying  that  she’d  send 
Michael  Malloy  as  soon  as  possible  to  remove  it 
and  to  liquidate  her  liabilities  for  three  months’ 
board  and  lodging  at  the  same  time,  she  bowed 
herself  out — leaving  poor  Mrs.  Kildea  the  most 
puzzled,  dumbfounded  and  bewildered  woman  be- 
tween Ireland’s  four  seas. 

Kitty  went  to  board  at  Michael  Malloy’s.  She 
would  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  free  enter- 
tainment, though  she  had  offers  in  plenty  from 
kindly  neighbors.  She  sent  word  to  Barney  Brian 
to  keep  well  out  of  her  way.  She  resolved  to  knit 
and  sew  for  an  independence. 

And  lo ! the  second  time  she  went,  to  the  town  to 
purchase  yarn,  she  found  an  American  letter  in 
the  postoffice  for  her — from  Aaron  Boult.  He 
informed  her  that  she  had  more  prescience  than 
he;  that  his  young  wife  had  proved  a sad  disap- 
pointment and  unworthy;  that  she  was  gone  from 


THE  CASE  OF  KITTY  KILDEA  99 

him — no  matter  how — never  to  return;  that  he 
offered  to  Kitty  his  most  abject  apologies,  and 
expressed  his  heartfelt  sorrow;  that  he  begged  of 
her  to  come  back  and  take  charge  of  his  house 
once  more,  and  of  himself,  too,  whom  she  would 
find  a wreck,  not  likely  to  trouble  the  world  much 
longer. 

Kitty  was  truly  sorry  for  him,  yet  she  hesitated 
for  a few  weeks.  Her  pride  had  been  very,  very 
sorely  wounded;  but  when,  at  last,  she  had  made 
up  her  mind  to  go,  she  was  stayed  by  a second 
letter — this  time  from  her  master’s  solicitors — 
announcing  that  Mr.  Boult,  who  had  just  suc- 
cumbed to  heart  disease,  had  bequeathed  her  an 
annuity  for  life  of  a thousand  dollars  “for  long 
and  faithful  services.” 

The  countryside  was  en  fete  for  the  great  good 
fortune  of  Kitty,  whom  all  had  grown  to  love 
very  much.  And  everyone  came  to  wish  her  long 
life,  and  good  fortune — everyone  except  Mrs. 
Kildea,  who  sat  at  home,  very,  very  glum  indeed, 
and  very  much  wroth  with  herself.  Barney  Brian 
came  only  because  Kitty  sent  him  a special  invita- 
tion; and  he  was  very  shamefaced  when  he  walked 
into  her  presence. 

But  Kitty  set  him  at  ease  that  night;  and  set  him 
up  as  a carpenter  the  following  week — a trade 
at  which  he  held  out  for  six  months ! 


lOO 


TOP  O’  THE  MORN  IN’ 


And  though  she  never  after  could  warm  to  the 
mercenary  Mrs.  Kildea,  she  was  generous  hearted 
enough  with  her  own  money  to  put  wee  Johnny 
in  the  way  of  becoming  a bishop. 

And  while  Kitty  Kildea  lived  to  a hale  old  age, 
the  poor  of  the  parish  had  reason  to  bless  her. 
And  when  she  died  five-score  of  them  prayed  that 
“Kitty’s  soul  might  journey  straight  to  God.” 
Barney  Brian  chided  them  for  that  their  pray- 
ers were  a wanton  superfluity. 

And  I think  they  were. 


VI 


BILLY  BAXTER’S  HOLIDAY 

BILLY’S  holiday  was  taken  in  New  York. 
His  nephew  Andy — Andy  MacCarthur, 
son  to  his  sister  Nannie — was  comfortably 
circumstanced  there, — foreman  in  a printing-of- 
fice downtown,  married  to  an  American,  raising  a 
respectable  family,  and  occupying  a fine  house  on 
a quiet  side  street  in  the  Fifties,  off  Eighth  Ave- 
nue. Andy,  who  was  a good-natured  soul,  had 
always  been  inviting  Billy  to  take  a trip  out  to 
America  for  a few  of  the  summer  months.  And 
at  length,  one  year,  after  Billy  had  got  down  his 
little  crop  successfully  and  early,  he  turned  the 
key  in  his  cabin  door  in  Knockagar  and  off  with 
him  on  a visit  to  America  and  Andy — just  “to  see 
the  lie  o’  the  l^n’,”  as  he  put  it  to  the  neighbors 
who  convoyed  him  far  on  the  way  to  Derry,  and 
cheered  him  off.  Billy  was  of  Scotch-Presbyterian 
descent,  but  we  treated  him  like  one  of  ourselves 
— which,  indeed,  he  had  become. 

Exquisite  was  the  sense  of  happy  relief  that 
possessed  Billy’s  breast  on  the  first  morning  he 

IOI 


102 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


opened  his  eyes  in  a cheery  bedroom  in  Andy’s 
home  and  reflected  that,  without  delving  or 
drudging,  this  day — and  many  a sweet  day  after 
— was  going  to  provide  for  itself. 

This  was  almost  the  first  time  in  a weary  stretch 
of  half  a century  that  Billy  could  rise  and  “throw 
his  duds  on  him”  without  having  his  mind  laden 
with  fifty  cares  and  five,  and  puzzling  which  he 
would  attend  to  first. 

As  light  as  an  air-ball  and  as  bright  as  a button 
Billy  felt  when  he  stood  at  the  hall-door,  drawing 
deep  breaths  of  the  fresh  air,  and  with  beaming 
countenance  taking  in  the  details  of  Andy’s  street. 
As  all  his  life  a coat  had  been  a troublesome  piece 
of  affectation  when  worn  in  the  house, — or  even 
out  of  the  house,  when  it  was  not  raining,  or 
when  he  was  not  going  to  pay  his  rent, — Billy 
was  now,  of  course,  in  his  shirt-sleeves.  Every 
morning  it  wras  Billy’s  delight  to  take  the  air 
thus,  and  get  a glimpse  of  the  world  before  break- 
fast.. Billy  had  been  told  that  the  Americans  were 
cold  and  distant,  and  that,  even  if  they  felt  in- 
clined to  notice  you,  they  couldn’t  lose  the  time 
necessary.  But  he  found  them  otherwise.  Few 
hurried  past  on  either  side  of  the  street  without 
glancing  up  at  him.  And  they  smiled  too.  Billy 
was  pleased  to  have  the  Americans  rise  in  his 
opinion.  He,  of  course,  saluted  all  of  them. 


y 


BILLY  BAXTER  S HOLIDAY  103 

“Top  o’  the  mornin’  to  ye!  ma’am. — Isn’t  that 
the  purty  mornin’,  glory  be  to  God!”  he  said  to 
one  dignified,  but  amazed,  madam:  and  “How 
does  the  smell  o’  that  mornin’  plaise  ye?”  to 
another.  To  a couple  of  young  men  who  paused 
to  inquire  when  he  landed,  Billy,  coming  down  to 
the  lowermost  step,  told  a detailed  account  of  his 
voyage,  pictured  the  horrors  of  sea-sickness,  and 
gave  an  account  of  how  his  crops  were  looking 
when  he  left,  dwelling  in  particular  on  the  fine 
show  of  praties  there  was  goin’  to  be  in  the  “lea- 
lan’  on  Patchy  Gallagher’s  mearin’.”  They  were 
deeply  interested,  and  promised  to  come  and  have 
a longer  chat  with  him  again.  To  his  surprise  he 
discovered  that  they  were  not  personally  ac- 
quainted with  Andhra — “me  sister  Nannie’s  son, 
Andhra.  Why,  he’s  in  Ameriky  this  twinty-siven 
years,  or  it’ll  be  twinty-eight  come  Lammas 
Day?” 

They  confessed  that  it  was  very  stupid  of  them 
not  to  know  one  who  had  been  in  their  country 
so  long,  but  they  refused,  just  then,  to  go  in  to 
see  Andhra,  as  they  were  particularly  hurried. 
Billy  was  much  pleased  with  them,  and  as  he  gave 
them  a parting  hand-shake  assured  them  that  they,, 
were  two  “brave,  sthrappin’,  modest  young  fel- 
las, an’  a credit  to  their  mothers.”  When,  then, 
Billy  crossed  over  the  street  to  admire  Andhra’s 


104  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

house  from  the  opposite  sidewalk,  and  likewise 
scrutinize  more  closely  the  houses  on  that  far 
side  of  the  way,  Mrs.  MacCarthur  saw  him,  and 
ran  hastily  to  the  door  to  hail  him  in.  She  re- 
primanded him  severely  for  going  out  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, and  he  smiled  inwardly  at  her  foolish- 
ness. 

After  his  breakfast  Billy  took  position  on  the 
sidewalk  with  back  against  a friendly  lamp-post, 
and  on  the  passers-by  bestowed  freely  his  opinion 
about  the  morning,  and  his  prognostications  for 
the  remainder  of  the  day. 

When  a gentleman  whom  he  assumed  to  be  the 
fear-an-tiglie,  the  man  of  the  house,  appeared  at  a 
door  opposite,  Billy  crossed  over,  and,  mounting 
his  steps,  shook  the  gentleman’s  half-reluctant 
hand,  informing  him  that  he  was  uncle  to  Andhra 
beyant  (motioning  over  his  shoulder  with  the 
thumb  of  the  disengaged  hand),  that  he  had  only 
arrived  yesterday,  and  that  his  name  was  Billy 
— Billy  Baxter — “William,  indeed,  to  the  sthran- 
gers,  but” — and  he  gave  the  gentleman’s  hand  an 
extra  squeeze  as  he  made  the  concession — “to 
friends  always  plain  Billy.  An’  I’m  happy  to 
make  your  acquaintance,  sir,” — for  Billy  prided 
himself  on  knowing  the  correct  thing  to  say  and 
to  do. 

“That’s  a fine  house  of  Andhra’s,  isn’t  it?  God 


BILLY  BAXTER’S  HOLIDAY  105 

spare  him ! Why,  Misther  Russell  himself  can’t 
brag  of  a much  better  house  nor  that.” 

His  friend  did  not  know  who  Mr.  Russell  was. 

“Misther  Russell!  Why,  Misther  Russell’s  our 
Agent — Agent  for  all  the  Banagh  property;  an* 
likewise  for  Loughrossmor  an’  Loughrossbeg  in 
Boylagh.  This  is  a brave  house  o’  your  own; 
good  luck  to  both  you  an’  it ! What  rent’s  on  it 
now,  be  your  laive?” 

The  gentleman  smiled  good-naturedly  and  said 
he  believed  it  paid  fifteen  hundred  dollars.  When, 
on  the  basis  of  a score  of  pounds  to  a hundred 
dollars,  Billy  grasped  the  idea  of  fifteen  hundred 
dollars,  he  gasped  for  breath.  He  went  down 
the  steps,  and  from  the  middle  of  the  street  took 
a survey  of  the  house.  Then  he  came  up  again. 

“Are  ye  tellin’  the  truth?”  he  said. 

“Yes,” 

He  whistled  under  his  breath  for  some  mo- 
ments as  he  tried  to  realize  the  astounding  thing. 

“Ye  have  a turf-bank*  into  it,  of  course?”  then 
he  said,  looking  up  at  his  friend. 

“What?” 

“Ye  have  a turf-bank,  I say,  into  it,  of  course?” 

“Well,  I can’t  say  there  is — I should  say  no.” 

This  set  Billy  whistling  fiercely.  He  went  onto 

* Almost  all  our  little  farms  in  Donegal  have  turf-rights,  or 
permission  for  their  holders  to  cut  turf  free,  in  some  bog. 


io6 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


the  street  again  and  strained  his  eyes  looking  at 
the  house,  still  whistling  forcefully  under  his 
breath.  And  when  he  mounted  the  steps  again 
he  said, — 

“Ye’re  sure  ye  have  no  turf-bank  into  it?” 

“Sure,”  said  his  friend. 

“An’  fifteen  score  i’  pounds  rent?” 

“I  believe  that’s  it.” 

“Well,”  Billy  said,  “I’m  rammed!”  He  passed 
the  gentleman  and  going  in  of  the  open  door-way, 
looked  around  the  hall  observantly  and  all  over 
it  from  floor  to  ceiling,  still  whistling  lowly.  Then 
he  pushed  open  the  parlor-door  and  thrust  in  his 
head,  soliloquizing,  “An’  no  turf-bank!”  But 
there  were  some  young  ladies  in  the  parlor,  so  he 
hastily  withdrew  again — but,  of  course,  not  with- 
out having  first  taken  off  his  hat  and  said,  “A 
good-mornin’  to  yous,  gissachs,*  wan  an’  all.  I 
hope  the  mornin’  agrees  with  yous.” 

“An’  no  turf-bank?”  he  said  again,  but  this  time 
resignedly,  to  the  gentleman  at  the  door. 

“No  turf-bank,”  the  gentleman  said. 

“Do  ye  know,”  Billy  said  in  a warning  tone, 
“how  much  they’re  chargin’  ye  for  that  house? 
Aren’t  you  the  fear-a’-tighe?”  he  said  on  second 
thought. 

“The  what?” 


t Girls. 


BILLY  BAXTER  S HOLIDAY  107 

“Aren’t  you  the  fear-a’-tighe?  I say — the  man 
i’  the  house?” 

“Oh,  no,  I only  board  here.” 

“Oh,  then  I beg  your  pardon,”  Billy  said.  “All 
the  same,  ye’d  be  doin’  the  fear-a’-tighe  z good 
turn  if  ye’d  tell  him  from  me  that  they’re  chargin’ 
him  for  that  house  as  much  rent  as  is  paid  be  the 
three  townlands  of  Tievahurkey,  Corracliave,  and 
Meenariddery !” 

Andrew’s  wife’s  name  was  Marguerite,  but 
Billy  simplified  it  to  Marget,  much  to  the  disgust 
of  the  person  most  interested.  Finding  that  her 
virgin  name  was  Purdon,  he,  when  wanting  to  be 
unwontedly  confidential  or  impressive,  addressed 
her  as  Marget  Purdon. 

A tramp  solicited  Billy  for  a nickel  “to  get  a 
crust,  boss.”  Billy  eyed  him  closely.  “Tell  the 
truth  an’  shame  the  divil,”  said  Billy.  “Isn’t  it 
that  ye  wor  on  the  tear  las’  night,  an’  want  a cure 
this  mornin’?” 

The  tramp,  with  becoming  blush,  shamed  the 
devil;  whereat  Billy  took  him  fraternally  by  the 
arm  and  helped  him  up  Andrew’s  steps. 

“Come  along  with  me,  frien’,  till  I see  if  An- 
dhra’s missus  hasn’t  got  somethin’  ’ill  do  ye  good. 
This,”  he  said,  “is  Andhra’s — my  nephew’s.” 

The  tramp  said,  “Oh!  is  it?”  with  interested 
surprise. 


io8 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


“It  is,”  Billy  said.  “Come  in. — Marget,”  he 
said,  when  Mrs.  MacCarthur,  all  frowning,  ap- 
peared, “if  ye’ve  got  a good  bowl  i’  thick  milk, 
I want  ye  to  give  it  to  me  frien’  here. — Arrah, 
don’t  look  so  sore  at  the  poor  divil.  He  was  at 
a wake  or  a weddin’  or  some  wee  friendly  spree  or 
other  las’  night,  an’  the  best  of  us  ’ill  forget  our- 
selves an’  smell  the  bottle  wanst  too  often  at  sich 
times.”  But  Marget  sternly  pointed  to  the  door, 
and  the  wanderer,  obeying  the  signal,  went  out. 
Billy,  who  had  sat  down  on  a hall  chair  and  was 
mopping  his  forehead  and  wiping  the  inside  of  his 
hat  with  a red  handkerchief,  got  up  here  with  a 
sigh  and  followed  his  friend. 

“Hilloa ! Hilloa!”  he  said,  “take  your  time, 
oul’  fella.  Marget  isn’t  in  humor  this  mornin’. 
That’s  a public  house,  isn’t  it,  at  the  corner?  An’ 
I’ve  got  a few  sthray  pince  in  me  pocket.  Don’t 
blame  her;  she’s  as  good-natured — Marget  is — 
as  ye’d  meet  in  a day’s  thravelin’,  when  she’s  in 
humor.” 

“I  know  it,  boss,”  the  wanderer  said. 

“Of  course  ye  do.  Here,  guvernor,  give  me 
frien’  here  a cure.” 

“Give  him  what?”  said  the  barkeeper. 

“A  cure — a half-wan — a half-wan  i’  whisky.” 

When  Billy  saw  a whole  bottle  of  whisky  put 
before  the  man  he  got  nervous,  and  objected  that 


BILLY  BAXTER’S  HOLIDAY  109 

he  did  not  order  a bottle.  But  the  barman  ex- 
plained that  this  was  American  custom.  Billy 
heartily  enjoyed  the  idea. 

“Well,  I wish  to  the  Lord,”  he  said,  “ye  kept  a 
public  house  in  Donegal  town,  an’  laid  a whole 
bottle  afore  the  boys  when  they  come  in  an’  or- 
dhered  half-wans!  Let  me  tell  ye,  ye’d  do  a roar- 
in’ thrade — while  ye’d  last. — I’m  Andhra’s  uncle, 
up-bye,”  he  said,  calling  his  thumb  into  requisition 
again.  “I’m  come  over  to  spen’  a month  or  two 
with  Andhra  an’  Marget  till  I get  to  see  the  lie 
i’  the  lan’.  I’ve  already  discovered  wan  fool  in 
this  street.  He  lives  fornenst  * Andhra’s : he 
pays  fifteen  score  i’  pounds  rent  (as  much  as  half 
the  parish  i’  Killymard)  an’  hasn’t  a turf-bank 
into  him ! — Now,  me  good  boy,”  he  said,  clapping 
his  friend  on  the  back  when  he  had  finished  his 
drink,  “go  on,  an’  go  to  your  work;  an’  if  any- 
thing’s sayed  again’  ye  bekase  of  bein’  late,  just 
tell  the  truth  an’  shame  the  divil.”  Before  he  left 
the  saloon  he  complimented  its  keeper  on  the  ele- 
gance of  it,  and  asked  him  how  it  paid  him,  and 
warned  him  always  to  keep  good  stuff  and  give 
no  drink  on  trust — in  which  case,  he  assured  him, 
he  would  do  well. 

Being  warned  by  Andrew,  Billy  did  not  for 
several  days  venture  alone  out  of  his  own  street. 

* Opposite. 


no 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


He  frequently  went  as  far  as  the  corners  of 
Broadway  or  of  Eighth  Avenue,  where  he 
stood  to  watch  the  cars  pass,  and  nod  or  speak  an 
encouraging  word  to  the  motor-men.  He  gave 
them  timely  warning  too  when  they  were  in  immi- 
nent danger  of  being  run  down  by  succeeding  cars. 
Often  too  when  there  seemed  risk  of  cars  going 
opposite  w'ays  colliding  or  brushing  against  each 
other,  he  exhorted  the  motor-man  to  keep  her 
head  off — with  entirely  successful  results  always. 
Possessed  with  innate  gallantry,  he  never  hesitated 
about  assisting  a lady  or  old  gentleman  off  a car; 
and  when  he  had  put  one  in,  he  invariably  re- 
quested the  conductor  to  provide  for  her  or  him 
“a  good  sait.”  On  the  third  morning  he  saw 
Andrew  on  the  car, — insisted  on  doing  so, — and 
then  warned  the  conductor  to  “keep  an  eye  to 
Andhra,  an’  see  an’  stop  the  car  an’  let  him  off  at 
his  office,  now. — Good-mornin’,  Andhra,  an’  watch 
your  step  when  ye’re  cornin’  off  the  car  again. 
Good-mornin’.” 

Billy  resolved  one  day  to  explore  a little  for 
himself  and,  of  course,  got  hopelessly  lost.  He 
found  a street,  indeed,  that  should  have  been 
Andrew’s  street — it  had  all  the  marks  and  tokens 
of  it,  to  the  saloon  on  the  corner — and  the  house 
that  should  have  been  Andrew’s;  but  he  could 
not  recognize  the  woman  who  opened  the  door  for 


BILLY  BAXTER’S  HOLIDAY  ill 


him;  Andrew  did  not  live  there.  Even  the  saloon- 
keeper was  not  the  saloon-keeper  who  should  have 
been  there.  It  was  very,  very  strange.  He  re- 
membered how  Rab  McCunnegan  of  the  Glibe 
had  been  taken  away  by  the  fairies,  and  Paddy 
Loch-beag  of  the  Dark  Moor,  and  he  knew  that 
he  was  now  under  their  spell.  After  wandering  a 
while  longer,  he  took  courage  to  stop  a gentleman 
and  inform  him  of  his  dilemma.  The  gentleman, 
to  Billy’s  surprise,  did  not  know  Andhra,  and 
Billy  could  not  remember  Andrew’s  number  or  the 
number  of  the  street. 

“Come  with  me,  and  I’ll  soon  find  where  he 
lives,”  the  kind  gentleman  said. 

Billy  found  himself  led  into  a grand  shop,  where 
the  gentleman  opened  a tremendously  big  book, 
which,  he  informed  Billy,  would  tell  all  about  An- 
drew. Billy  was  a bit  incredulous;  but  when  the 
gentleman  read  out  of  this  big  book  that  Andrew 
was  a printer,  that  he  worked  at  No.  So-and-so 
Liberty  Street,  and  that  he  lived  at  Such-a-num- 

ber  in  th  Street  (all  which  Billy  recognized 

when  he  heard)  he  was  astounded.  Before  he 
would  leave  the  store  he  had  to  touch  the  book, 
and  feel  it  all  over,  and  stand  back  to  admire  the 
bigness  of  it.  “Lochains  OP’  he  said.  “An’  to 
think  of  Andhra  havin’  a great  book  lake  that 
prented  about  him.”  When  he  learned  that  every 


1 12 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


drug-store  in  the  city  kept  one  of  these  books 
that  told  all  about  Andhra  his  amazement  was 
only  equaled  by  his  pride.  His  good  friend  put 
him  on  a car  and  gave  the  conductor  instructions 
where  to  drop  him.  And,  sure  enough,  just  where 
the  book  had  told  he  found  Andhra’s  house ! 

Afterwards  Billy  took  a perennial  delight  in 
getting  lost — the  more  hopelessly  the  better. 
Then  he  would  go  to  a drug-store  and  get  them  to 
read  out  from  the  book  about  Andhra,  where  ex- 
actly he  lived;  and  when  he  had  journeyed  as  di- 
rected, and  so  corroborated  the  statement  in  the 
book,  his  delight  was  complete. 

“Where  does  Andhra  live? — Andhra  MacCar- 
thur?”  he  would  inquire  of  the  druggist.  When 
satisfied  on  that  point  he  would  ask,  “Where  is 
hees  office?”  and  then,  “What  does  he  do?”  The 
correct  answers  to  all  which  having  been  heard 
by  him  with  sincere  pleasure,  he  loved  to 
straighten  himself  out  and  astound  the  druggist 
with  the  startling  information,  “I’m  Andhra’s 
uncle!”  Billy  was  anxious  to  know  how  much 
Andrew  earned,  but  his  sense  of  delicacy  pre- 
vented him  putting  the  question  to  his  nephew. 
One  day  he  was  emboldened  to  satisfy  himself 
somehow;  so,  after  he  had  put  his  usual  questions 
about  Andrew  in  a drug-store,  he  nerved  himself 
and  asked, — 


BILLY  BAXTER’S  HOLIDAY  113 

“An’  what  wages  is  Andhra  makin’  ?” 

The  druggist  looked  so  hard  at  him  that  Billy 
at  once  knew  he  had  been  too  inquisitive,  so  he 
was  not  either  surprised  or  angered  when  the 
druggist  said  sharply, — 

“Come,  get  out  of  here!” 

“It’s  no  matter,”  Billy  said  apologetically  as 
he  backed  out,  “but  I’m  uncle  to  Andhra.” 

Jeremiah  Johnston  had  left  Knockagar,  quite 
a lad,  a score  of  years  before.  He  had  been  suc- 
cessful, and  was  well  known  on  Wall  Street,  where 
his  faultless  vests  were  the  admiration  and  envy 
of  every  young  buck  who  worshiped  dress.  Billy 
had  twice  met  Jeremiah,  and  had  been  as  heartily 
glad  to  see  him,  the  son  of  an  old  friend,  as  he 
should.  But,  unfortunately,  Mr.  Johnston  was 
in  haste  to  overtake  an  engagement  on  both  occa- 
sions, so  that  Billy  had  not  the  satisfactory  chat 
with  him  he  would  have  liked.  But  on  an  evening 
that  Billy  entered  a crowded  Broadway  car  he 
was  pleased  to  behold  Mr.  Johnston  there,  though 
he  held  a strap  at  the  farther  end  of  the  car,  to 
which  Billy  could  not  push  his  way.  But  Billy’s 
voice  used  easily  to  carry  from  his  own  hill  of 
Dhrimaherk  to  that  of  Ednamoc  on  occasions 
when  he  wanted  to  warn  Pat  Gillespie’s  household 
(in  the  latter  townland)  that  their  sow  was  in  the 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


114 

corn : so  he  had  no  difficulty  in  chatting  across  a 
car. 

“Musha,  Jaramy,”  Billy  shouted,  “is  it  your- 
self’s  in  it?” 

Mr.  Johnston  acknowledged  by  a nervous  nod 
of  the  head  that  it  was  himself.  Some  bucks  with 
him,  as  artistically  dressed  as  himself,  clapped  him 
on  the  back  and  roared  with  laughter  at  some- 
thing or  other. 

“Troth,  Jaramy,”  Billy  proceeded,  “ye’re  a 
well-picked-up  man  from  thon  (yon)  day  long  ago 
that  you  an’  your  father’s  donkey  back-loaded  the 
manure  to  Tardy  Byrne’s  Long  Bottom. — A fine, 
big,  bare-footed  buachaill  ye  were  then,  with  an 
appetite  like  Shan  Ruadh’s  story — no  end  till  it. — 
But,  Jaramy  avic,  ye  would  niver  guess  who  got 
married  last  Cock-Chewsda?*  Shan’s  daughter, 
Avaleen,  married  to  Peggy  McGroarty’s  ouldest 
son,  of  Tullinagraina,  Taidy!  Ye  mind  ye  had  a 
notion  of  her  oulder  sister,  Soracha,  yourself. — 
Many’s  the  pair  i’  brogues  ye  wore  out,  goin’  on 
the  batter  up  to  Meenadhrim,  to  Shan’s,  after 
Soracha.  An’  throth  an’  if  she  saw  ye  now,  it’s 
she’d  be  the  sorry  girl  that  iver  she  refused  ye  for 
miserdly  Pathrick  Melly  of  Tullyfin. — An’  say, 

* The  Tuesday  immediately  preceding  Lent  was  set  apart  in 
Ireland  for  cock-fighting,  and  is  still  known  as  Cock-Tuesday# 


BILLY  BAXTER’S  HOLIDAY  115 

Jaramy,  do  ye  mind What!  sure  it  isn’t  gone 

ye  are,  Jaramy?” 

But  it  was  gone  Jaramy  was.  He  showed  as 
clean  a pair  of  heels  as  ever  a thoroughly  fright- 
ened man  did. 

Billy,  with  Irish  optimism,  could  not  at  all  ap- 
preciate American  grumblings  at  the  weather.  If 
in  his  presence  anyone  in  the  cars  or  the  stores 
complained  that  it  was  “darned  warm,” — “Arrah, 
man,”  Billy  would  say,  “this  is  the  weather  that 
the  young  praties  ’ill  make  in.”  And  if  complaint 
was  made  that  there  was  too  much  rain,  “Thanks 
be  to  God  for  the  dhrop  i’  rain,”  he  would  say. 
“It’s  the  best  spell  of  weather  ever  was  known 
for  the  kail — ye  could  see  it  growin’  now.” 

On  a Sunday  Andrew  had  several  friends  to 
dinner.  Mrs.  MacCarthur  had  outdone  herself 
in  preparing  an  elaborate  repast.  When  they 
were  all  seated  Billy  came  down.  He  had  that 
day  put  on  a fine  linen  shirt,  and  it  was  as  much 
from  motives  of  pride  as  those  of  east;  and  com- 
fort that  he  had  left  aside  his  coat.  Mrs.  Mac- 
Carthur, in  consternation,  whispered  to  him  that 
he  could  not  sit  at  table  in  his  shirt  sleeves. 

“The  sorra  bit  of  harm  it’ll  do  them,”  Billy 
whispered  back,  his  pride  flattered.  Mrs.  Mac- 
Carthur then  put  her  meaning  more  clearly. 

“Musha,  Marget,”  said  Billy,  speaking  out, 


1 16 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


with  the  least  little  show  of  indignation,  “there’s 
nothin’  to  be  ashamed  of  in  the  stuff  that’s  in  them 
shirt-sleeves.  Just  feel  it,  ma’am,”  and  he  laid  an 
arm  before  a lady  who  sat  on  his  left.  Though 
he  carefully  apologized,  “I  have  a han’  like  a fut 
— don’t  look  at  it,  only  the  stuff  in  me  shirt.” 

“That,”  he  assured  her,  “is  Mary  Jane  Brin- 
nan’s  own  spinnin’,  an’  Owen  McDiarmid’s  weav- 
in’,— Owen  of  the  Esker, — an’  it  grew  on  me  own 
lan’,  in  the  Stony  Park.”  But  from  Andrew’s 
pained  expression  and  head-shake  Billy  suspected 
it  was  better  to  humor  Marget,  and  so,  with  the 
resignation  of  a martyr,  sat  down  again  in  his 
coat. 

During  each  of  the  preliminary  courses  Billy  in 
a stage  whisper  admonished  his  immediate  neigh- 
bors to  “dail  lightly;  take  my  word  for  it,  an’ 
only  take  of  these  what  ’ill  fill  the  far-lands,” 
strengthening  precept  too  by  example.  But  the 
draft  which  these  courses  drew  upon  Billy’s  pa- 
tience did  not  warrant  the  humor  of  them.  His 
patience  gave  out,  and  he  said,  “Marget,  this  is 
all  very  fine,  but  we  all  know  ye’ve  got  a leg  of 
mutton  an’  three  ducks,  so  ye  may  as  well  have 
them  thrin’led  in  at  wanst.” 

And  when  at  length  they  did  come  in,  Billy 
rubbed  his  hands  gleefully  and  crowed  trium- 
phantly. “What  did  I tell  yous,  boys  an’  girls?” 


BILLY  BAXTER’S  HOLIDAY  117 

he  said.  “Now,  if  I had  let  yous  go  on  fillin’  your- 
selves up  with  all  the  nonsense  was  bein’  carted 
in  to  yous  (an’  yous  were  makin’  good  shape  at 
that  same),  ye  would  be  now  cryin’ — like  wee 
Johnnie  Managhan  of  Tannatallan,  the  time  Mrs. 
McCoy  of  Tullinalagan  set  the  tay  an’  buttered 
bread  afore  him  after  she’d  let  him  fill  himself  up 
with  praties,  without  givin’  him  warnin’  that  there 
was  tay  cornin’.” 

As  the  children  in  the  parks  were  deplorably 
ignorant  of  the  proper  child  games,  Billy  very 
profitably  spent  a series  of  evenings  bringing  them 
forward  on  “The  Widow  of  Athlone,”  “The  Sit- 
tin’  Brogue,”  and  “Barney,  Barney,  buck  and 
doe.”  A squad  of  poor  children  at  the  North 
River,  whom  he  had  been  teaching  one  evening, 
were  so  infatuated  with  “The  Widow  of  Athlone” 
that  they  followed  Billy  to  his  own  street  and  in- 
duced him  to  continue  his  tuition  there — which 
the  kind-hearted  Billy  did — until  the  inhabitants 
sent  for  the  police. 

But  Mrs.  MacCarthur  was  gradually  breaking 
Billy  in,  and  Billy’s  spirit  was  pining  proportion- 
ately. When  she  at  length  got  him  inveigled  into 
a stiff  American  dress,  with  painfully  superfluous 
collars  and  cuffs,  poor  Billy’s  sorely  tried  spirit 
was  nigh  broken,  and  he  expressed  the  wish  to  get 
home  to  old  Ireland  again. 


n8  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

The  longing  for  home  and  the  neighbors,  he 
said,  was  overcoming  him;  and — though  he  did 
not  confess  this  till  years  after — he  sat  down  on 
a seat  in  Central  Park  one  evening  that  the  home- 
thoughts  crowded  on  him,  and  wept. 

Andrew  filled  both  his  box  and  his  purse ; even 
Mrs.  MacCarthur  did  not  forget  him.  Billy 
brought  presents  for  every  man,  woman,  and 
child,  almost,  in  Knockagar. 

The  coming  of  a king  could  not  excite  the  en- 
thusiasm that  was  created  amongst  us  by  the  re- 
turn of  Billy.  We  led  him  home  in  triumph,  and 
held  high  carnival  for  a week  after. 

And  round  the  hearth,  on  winter  nights  Billy’s 
wonderful  tales  of  adventure  in  foreign  parts  held 
fascinated  for  long  and  long  afterward,  some  gen- 
erations of  good  Knockagar  folk. 


VII 


WEE  PAIDIN* 

IT  was  just  two  months  after  his  poor  mother 
(God  rest  her!)  left  us;  it  was  on  May 
mornin’  itself — it’s  well  I remember — that 
we  laid  the  green  sod  above  poor  Mary;  July  it 
come  round,  an’  every  boy  could  was  sharpenin’ 
his  scythe-hook  and  troopin’  off  to  the  Scotch  har- 
vest!— everybody  could  go  was  matin’  the  best 
strive  to  go,  and  every  boy  couldn’t  stay  at  home 
had  to  go,  and  no  thanks  to  him. 

I was  wan  o’  these  last  boys,  and  ’twas  sore 
it  was  gettin’  on  me  to  part  poor  Paidfn,  laivin’ 
him  without  a father,  as  God  had  seen  fit  to  laive. 
him  without  a mother. 

“Paidin  a buachaill”  says  I till  him,  “I’ll  put  a 
bit  of  a padlock  upon  the  doore  (for  feard  of 
thramps),  and  I’ll  laive  you  above  in  Lisahilly,  in 
your  Uncle  Eamon’s,  where  they’ll  take  good  care 
of  ye  till  I come  back.” 

* Pronounced  Paud-yeert. 

t Thousands  of  boys  and  men  go  from  Donegal  every  year 
to  win  the  Scottish  harvest. 

119 


120 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

Little  Paidin  he  cut  me  to  the  heart,  the  sor- 
rowful look  he  gi’  me.  “Me  mammie  left  me  first, 
and  now  you’re  goin’  to  lai’  me,  daddie,”  was  all 
he  sayed. 

“Paidin  a mhilis  ” says  I,  “the  rent  must  be 
made  be  hook  or  be  crook.  Irelan’  can’t  pay  it, 
and  I must  make  Scotian’  do  it.” 

Young  as  he  was,  poor  Paidin  knew  well  that, 
life  or  daith,  the  rent  had  to  be  forth-cornin’. 

“Ay,  daddie,”  says  he.  “Then,  daddie,  I’ll 
tell  ye : ye  go  away  to  Scotian’  and  earn  the  rent, 
and  try  to  don’t  be  long,  and  I’ll  spend  the  most 
of  the  time  with  mammie — in  the  graveyard — till 
you  com,e  back  again.  And  I’ll  tell  mammie  every 
day  that  daddie’s  cornin’  home  the  morra,  with 
the  whole  rent  tied  up  in  the  corner  of  his  han’- 
kercher;  then  I’ll  not  be  lonely,  an’  mammie  ’ill 
not  be  so  vexed  for  me.” 

“Chile,”  says  I,  and  me  heart  was  cryin’  for 
the  innocence  of  him,  “it  would  never  do  for  ye 
to  be  goin’  that  way  to  your  mammie’s  grave, 
wakenin’  her  out  of  her  peaceful  sleep,  an’  troub- 
lin’ the  heart  of  her.  It  would  never,  never  do, 
Paidin.” 

Then  Paidin  cried.  “Och,  daddie,”  says  he,  “I 
wouldn’t  for  the  wide  worl’  waken  poor  mammie. 
But,  then,  what’ll  I do?  Och,  och!  no  mammie 
and  no  daddie !” 


WEE  PAIDIN 


121 


I wouldn’t  ha’  been  half  as  grieved  if  I could 
ha’  joined  wee  Paidin  and  cried  to  aise  the  weight 
was  over  me  heart. 

“Daddie,”  says  wee  Paidin,  jumpin’  up,  “I’ll 
go  to  the  harvest  with  ye !” 

“God  bliss  your  yalla  head,  Paidin,  but  that 
would  nivir  do,”  says  I,  and  it  nearly  made  me 
smile,  the  manliness  of  him. 

“Och,  yis,  say  it  will  do,  daddie — say  it  will  do ! 
Then  daddie  and  Paidin  ’ill  be  together  always, 
and  mammie  she’ll  not  waken  till  we  come  back. 
I’ll  tell  Barney  Friel  to  drive  his  cart  the  other 
road  always  and  not  the  graveyard  road.  And  then 
she’ll  niver  know  we’re  away  so  far  from  her. 
And  sure,  daddie,  we  can’t  help  it.” 

There  was  no  way  out  of  it.  If  I left  wee 
Paidin  he’d  be  dead  of  grief  and  lonesomeness 
afore  I’d  be  at  Darry  Quay.  So,  the  very  nixt 
mornin’,  out  the  both  of  us  stepped.  At  the  grave- 
yard we  went  in  and  sayed  a Pater-and-Ave  over 
Mary,  and  then  trudged,  without  a word  passin’ 
either  of  our  lips,  for  three  mile  o’  groun’.  Paidin 
had  a nice  little  blackthorn  in  wan  han’,  that 
helped  him  along,  and  a small  can  of  fresh  milk 
in  the  other,  and  his  pockets  well  stuffed  with  oat 
bread;  I carried  all  our  little  belongin’s  in  a red 
han’kercher  on  the  end  o’  me  own  stick;  and  a 
jug  o’  milk  likewise;  and  the  scythe-hook  more- 


122 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


over.  Right  manly  he  stepped  out,  foot  for  foot 
with  me;  and  he,  like  the  oul’est  han’  on  the  road, 
lookin’  serious  far  away  afore  him,  as  if  he  meant 
neither  to  sit  nor  br’ak  bread  till  he’d  be  in 
Scotian’.  To  see  the  spirit  of  him  prided  me  and 
lifted  me  heart.  Paidin  ’ud  trudge  a mile  and  then 
I’d  get  him  on  me  shoulder  and  carry  him  a mile. 
Only  for  the  thoughts  of  his  poor  mammie’s  lone- 
liness, who  we  were  laivin’  farther  behind  us  at 
every  step,  we  would  ha’  been  downright  merry. 
We  left  home  afore  the  day  broke.  At  a good 
dinner-time  we  had  covered  twinty  mile  of  our 
journey,  and  had  only  fifteen  more  afore  us.  So 
in  a convenient  place  by  the  roadside  we  sat  down, 
and  I produced  hard  bread  and  butter,  and  with 
Paidin’s  can  of  milk  we  made  as  hearty  a male 
as  ever  tired  and  hungry  men  did.  And  wee  Paidin 
with  his  back  propped  up  again’  a stone  ditch,  and 
his  wee  staff  in  his  hand,  dropped  into  a soun’ 
sleep.  I lit  me  pipe  and  watched  the  craiture — 
and  it  was  better  nor  me  dinner  over  again  to  me. 
He  slep’  for  a solid  hour,  and  when  he  wakened  up 
he  was  as  fresh  as  a spring  mornin’ — divil  a mor- 
sel o’  tiredness  that  he  hadn’t  slep’  out  o’  the  bones 
of  him. 

“Daddie,”  says  he,  takin’  up  his  little  can  and 
spittin’  on  his  staff,  “are  ye  ready?’’ 

So  the  road  we  tuk  again,  with  lighter  hearts 


WEE  PAIDIN 


123 


than  we  felt  yet,  and  we  walked  up  Darry  Quay 
afore  the  sun  had  gone  out  of  the  sky,  and  within 
less  nor  a quarter  of  an  hour  o’  the  sailin’  o’  the 
boat — near  a’most  late,  for  when  I get  sundered 
from  home,  it  bates  me  to  reckon  sun  and  time. 

It  was  a beautiful  night,  and  Paidin,  I put  the 
bundle  undher  his  wee  head  on  the  ship’s  deck, 
and"  he  slep’  like  a king’s  son.  The  full  moon  was 
shinin’  down  into  the  craiture’s  face,  and  I 
sat  watchin’,  watchin’  him  for  an  hour,  and  I 
shook  me  head,  thinkin’  of  the  manly  wee  heart 
was  in  him ; and  to  two  Marys  in  heaven,  his  own 
mother  and  God’s  mother,  I prayed  that  they’d 
watch  over  him  till  he’d  be  the  man  he  desarved 
to  be.  I slept  meself  then,  with  me  back  again’ 
the  mast,  by  wee  Paidin’ s side. 

The  only  wan  thing  cowed  wee  Paidin  was 
when  we  went  up  Glesgow,  where  the  crowds  o’ 
people,  all  rushin’  distracted,  and  the  tearin’  about 
of  horses  and  carts  and  coaches,  and  the  rattle  and 
the  roar,  was  frightsome  on  him.  “Oh,  daddie,” 
he  says,  as  he  gathered  himself  close  to  me,  “sure, 
ye’ll  not  be  long  till  ye  take  me  out  of  here?” 

“Not  long,  a pais  din,”  says  I. 

From  we  parted  Glesgow  we  had  five  days’ 
trampin’  afore  us,  and  a braver  spirited  nor 
Paidin,  boy  or  man,  didn’t  do  the  same  tramp 
afore  or  since.  I always  bathed  the  wee  feet  of 


124 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


him  at  night,  and  the  legs — and  he’d  be  droppin’ 
asleep  while  I’d  be  doin’  it — and  then  he’d  always 
rise  as  fresh  as  the  daisies,  more  eager  for  the 
road  than  ever.  We  got  lodgin’s  in  a wee  town 
the  first  night,  and  the  next  night  a kin’-hearted 
man  (God’s  blissin’  be  on  him!)  made  us  free  of 
his  hay-loft,  and  the  two  nights  after  we  slep’  like 
princes  in  the  open  air — wan  o’  the  nights  on  a 
river’s  bank,  and  the  other  in  a haggard — and 
Paidin  he  always  sayed  in  the  mornin’  he’d  sooner 
pay  to  sleep  that  way  than  get  paid  to  sleep  again 
in  such  a dirty,  bad-smellin’  lodgin’  house,  as 
we  paid  our  fourpence  for  a nasty  bed  in,  on  the 
first  night.  And  heartily  I agreed  with  Paidin 
there.  I had,  of  course,  as  much  hard-bread  (well 
buttered)  in  me  bundle  as  would  feed  both  of  us 
for  a week;  and  we  always  then  managed  to  get 
as  much  milk  to  buy  every  day  as  filled  Paidin’s 
wee  can.  It  would  do  your  heart  good  to  see  us 
sittin  down  in  a shady  place  on  the  road-side  in 
the  hait  o’  the  day,  nicely  tired,  and  spreadin’  out 
our  wee  male  upon  the  grass,  and  blissin’  ourselves 
and  failin’  to  it  as  only  hungry  men  can.  And 
when  I at  length  sayed,  “God  be  thanked,  a pais- 
din!”  and  Paidin  sayed,  “Thanks  be  to  God,  dad- 
die  !”  and  closed  his  eyes  all  at  wanst  for  a half- 
hour’s  nap,  I can  tell  ye  we  both  of  us  felt  the 
thanks  in  our  heart. 


WEE  PAIDIN 


125 


All  the  time  we  were  on  the  road  there  was  only 
wanst  I was  vexed — but  to  the  heart  I was  vexed 
then.  It  was  cornin’  through  a little  town  we  were 
and  I seen  wee  Paidin  lookin’,  with  the  wistfulest 
eye  in  his  head  you  ever  seen,  at  a windy  full  of 
nice  sweet-cakes.  I fingered  in  me  pocket  the  few 
wee  coppers  I owned.  And  then,  “Paidin,”  says  I, 
offerin’  him  a penny,  “go  in  and  buy  for  us  a pen- 
n’orth o’  them  nice  cakes.” 

All  at  wanst  the  longin’  look  left  Paidin’s  eye. 

“I’ll  not  do  nothin’  i’  the  sort,  daddie,”  says  he, 
“for  I don’t  want  sweet-cakes;  and  well  I know 
you  don’t.  Daddie  dear,”  says  he,  “it’s  far  you 
traveled  to  earn  the  rent,  and  sure  it  isn’t  that 
ye’re  goin’  to  laive  out  on  sweet-cakes  for  me  wan 
of  the  wee  couple  o’  pennies  ye  own?  No,  daddie,” 
says  he,  “I’ll  have  none  o’  your  sweet-cakes !” 
But  the  very  next  minnit  a windy  full  of  picturs 
took  Paidin’s  eye.  “Oh,  daddie,  daddie,”  he 
shouted  to  me,  and  he  jumpin’  with  joy,  “come 
’ere,  come  ’ere  quick,  till  ye  see  home ! Oh,  dad- 
die, daddie  dear!” 

And  sure  enough,  wan  i’  the  pictur’s  was  just 
such  a wee  house — with  wan  wee  windy  and  a 
doore — like  our  own  wee  house  at  home;  and  a 
clump  o’  bushes,  too,  like  the  boor-trees  by  our 
gavel  (gable),  and  such  another  hill  risin’  up  be- 
llin’ it  as  our  own  hill  where  Paidin  used  to  run 


126 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


and  tumble  and  rowl,  as  frisky  as  a kitten,  afore 
bis  poor  mammie  died  and  the  fun  went  out  of  ’im. 
“Oh,  daddie,  daddie !”  says  he,  and  the  tears 
stan’in’  in  his  wee  eyes,  God  bliss  ’im ! — “oh,  dad- 
di'e,  daddie,  aren’t  ye  glad?” 

It  was  a paper  pictur,  and  thinks  I it’ll  not  cost 
more  nor  a penny  or  tuppence ; and  even  if  it  took 
three  times  that  to  buy  it,  Paidin,  it’ll  be  yours. 

“Paidin,”  I says  to  him,  “we’ll  buy  the  pictur; 
we  can  spare  a penny  or  tuppence  at  our  ease !” 
“Daddie,”  says  he,  “I’d  give  the  coat  on  me 
back  for  it,  but,  oh,  if  it  cost  tuppence,  that  would 
be  more  than  ever  ye  could  spare !” 

“Spare  or  no  spare,  Paidin,”  says  I,  “it’ll  mind 
you  of  home,  and  I’m  goin’  to  get  it.”  And  with- 
out another  word  in  I marches  intil  the  shop,  and 
Paidin  at  me  heels,  the  eyes  in  his  head  dancin’ 
with  joy.  “How  much,”  says  I to  the  man  behin’ 
the  counter — a surly-lookin’  fella  enough,  God 
knows — “how  much  are  ye  wantin’  for  that  little 
pictur  in  the  left-han’  corner  i’  the  windy  facin’ 
out?” 

He  sayed  that  was  somethin’  he  called  an  en- 
gravin’,  and  the  cost  of  it  was  eighteen  pence. 

The  heart  o’  me  went  down  at  the  word.  I 
looked  at  Paidin,  and  there  was  a big  tear  shinin’ 
in  every  eye  of  him.  He  seen  me  put  me  han’ 
into  me  pocket,  an’  he  caught  a hold  of  it,  and 


WEE  PAIDIN 


127 


“Come  away,  daddie,”  says  he,  tuggin’  at  me  with 
all  his  might,  afeerd  I was  goin’  to  do  somethin’ 
rash.  “Come  away,  daddie,”  says  he.  And  then 
I saw  well  that  if  I bought  the  pictur  for  him  at 
such  money  he’d  get  small  pleasure  from  it. 

“Sir,”  says  I to  the  shopman,  “it’s  that  the 
young  buachaill  took  a particular  fancy  to  the  pic- 
tur, for  it’s  like  our  own  wee  hut,  an’  our  own  hill 
at  home — and  his  mother  (rest  her  soul!)’s  dead 
— and  I thought  I’d  like  to  plaise  him  with  it. 
But  me  money  isn’t  (thank  God!)  as  plenty  as  it 
might  be.  I thought  the  pictur  might  cost  tup- 
pence. But  I’ll  give  ye  a sixpence,”  says  I,  “if 
ye  can  let  me  have  it  for  that.” 

Paidin  thought  I was  runnin’  meself  to  ruin  to 
plaise  him,  so  he  tugged  at  me  stronger  than  ever. 

The  surly  fella  got  red  in  the  face.  “Get  out  o’ 
here,  ye  Irish  tramp,  ye!”  says  he.  “Out!  you 
and  your  brat,  or  I’ll  go  aroun’  and  kick  ye  out !” 
The  blood  boiled  in  me.  Irish  tramp!  What 
I’d  have  done  with  the  mean  scoundrel  God  only 
knows;  I’d  ’a’  l’arnt  him,  anyhow,  that  if  an  Irish- 
man was  (be  God’s  will)  poor  and  ragged,  he  had 
a spirit  in  him  that  wouldn’t  take  abuse  of  either 
himself  or  his  counthry  off  the  han’s  of  a bod- 
ach.*  This  I’d  ’a’  taught  the  low  fella  in  a very 
few  minutes,  only  I bethinks  me  of  Paidin,  and 

♦An  ignorant  moneyed  man. 


128 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


obsarved  what  the  innocent  craiture  was  about. 
He  let  go  o’  me  when  he  heerd  the  fella  call  me 
Irish  tramp,  and  he  edged  up  the  shop  a bit  nearer 
the  fella,  he  grippin’  the  stick  in  his  fist  like  a 
worthy,  and  the  wee  teeth  of  him  set,  and  the  eye 
of  him  flashin’  like  I niver  saw  it  neither  before 
that  day  nor  after  it.  I was  proud  of  him,  and 
the  anger  in  me  heart  melted  on  the  minnit.  I 
naither  used  wan  abusive  word  to  the  fella  nor 
replied.  I just  give  him  wan  look  of  contemp’, 
and  catchin’  little  Paidin  be  the  han’,  “Come, 
Paidin,”  says  I,  “away  out  o’  here!”  and  we  both 
went  out.  When  we  traveled  a quarther  of  a 
mile  I took  courage  to  look  at  Paidin,  whose  heart, 
I was  sure,  was  burstin’  and — would  ye  believe  it? 
— the  wee  fella’s  eye  was  as  dry  as  the  road  he 
was  walkin’  on! 

Howsomever,  Paidin  and  me  had  too  much  to 
think  on,  and  we  soon  forgot  that  small  scrape. 
But,  behold  ye,  on  the  last  day  of  our  travelin’ 
we  were  with  about  a score  of  Connaught  men 
who  come  up  to  us  on  the  road.  And  behold  ye, 
this  day  didn’t  I take  a nap  to  meself  after  din- 
ner, and  when  I wakened  up  some  of  our  com- 
rades was  started,  and  some  startin’.  Wee  Paidin 
had  tuk  on  with  the  Connaught  men,  and  I,  not 
seein’  him  now,  paid  no  heed  but  that  he  had  gone 


WEE  PAIDIN 


129 


on  afore  with  the  first  batch  o’  them.  And  lo,  when 
we  overhauled  the  first  batch,  which  wasn’t  till  a 
couple  o’  hours  later,  what  was  me  vexation  to 
find  that  there  was  no  Paidin  with  them!  Some 
of  them  had  seen  him  goin1  intil  a wood  beside 
where  we  tuk  our  bite  to  ait,  followin’  after  a bird 
and  didn’t  see  hilt  or  hair  of  him  since,  but  thought 
of  course,  he  was  followin’  with  us. 

To  Tighten  me,  I tuk  off  me  the  shoes  and 
stockin’s  and  slung  them  over  me  stick  with  the 
bundle  and  tuk  me  hat  in  me  han’,  and  as  I covered 
the  groun’  back  again  to  the  wood  with  the  speed 
of  a hare,  there  was  many’s  the  traveler  stopped 
to  look  afther  me.  When  I come  to  the  spot, 
there  was  no  Paidin  there.  I hid  me  bundle  just 
inside  the  wood;  I first  looked  up  the  roads,  and 
down  the  roads  close  by,  and  of  every  wan  I met  I 
enquired  afther  Paidin,  givin’  them  the  marks  and 
tokens,  but  got  neither  tale  nor  tidin’s.  Into  the 
wood  then  I went,  and  wandered  it  up  and  down, 
hither  and  thither,  from  then  till  sunsettin’  callin’ 
“Paidin!  Paidin!”  at  the  top  o’  me  voice,  and 
gettin’  sorra  an  answer  but  from  the  Mac-a-talla* 
callin’  “Paidin!  Paidin”  back  to  me  again;  and 
from  sunsettin’  till  the  sun  riz  the  next  mornin’ 
— and  long  after — I was  still  either  trampin’ 
the  roads  about  or  wanderin’  the  wood  (which 

* The  son  of  the  rock  (i.  e,,  the  echo). 


130  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

was  a mighty  great  wan)  again,  searchin’  and 
searchin’,  callin’  and  callin’,  but  all  in  vain. 

When  the  day  was  in  it,  I traveled  a couple  of 
miles  of  every  road  in  the  neighborhood,  asked  at 
every  house,  and  stopped  and  queskined  every 
wan  I met — but  no  word  of  Paidin.  At  two 
o’clock  in  the  day — and  a broilin’  day  it  was — 
after  bein’  on  me  feet  without  rest  or  pause  for 
twenty-four  solid  hours,  I felt  I had  to  give  in 
and  sit  me  down.  The  grief  was  lyin’  on  me  heart 
I can’t  pictur’  to  ye.  I minded  me  then  that 
though  I had  prayed,  on  me  feet,  as  I niver 
prayed  afore,  me  knee  I hadn’t  bent  to  God  since 
yisterday.  So  down  behind  a bush  where  none 
could  see  me  I knelt  on  me  knees  and  offered  up 
me  prayers,  and  asked  God  to  have  pity  on  me; 
and  asked  Mary,  poor  Mary,  to  intercede  with 
God  for  me,  and  for  the  chile  of  her  heart,  her 
own  Paidin.  I felt  aisier  in  me  mind  then,  as  I 
saited  meself  undher  the  shade  of  a tree,  and 
lightin’  the  pipe,  took  off  me  shoes  to  aise  the  feet 
o’  me,  that  was  achin’  with  a great  soreness.  Near 
the  road  it  was,  and  as  I sat,  who  should  come 
by  but  a gintleman  that  stopped  when  he  seen 
me,  and  give  me  a great  look. 

“Good-morra,  me  frien’,”  says  he. 

“Good-morra,  kindly  sir,”  says  I. 

“You’re  an  Irishman?”  says  he. 


WEE  PAIDIN 


131 

I looked  down  at  me  por  oul’  clothes,  and  “God 
help  ye,  poor  Irelan’!”  says  I to  meself.  “Tat- 
thers  is  the  only  token  that  the  stranger  ’ill  know 
ye  by.”  “Yis,”  say  I,  holdin’  up  me  head  boldly 
— “Yis,  I’m  proud  to  say  I’m  an  Irishman !”  The 
gintleman,  I think,  must  ’a’  seen  I was  nettled, 
for  he  says  then,  very  kindly: 

“And  a good  right  ye  have  to  be  proud  of  it, 
honest  man,”  says  he.  Then  says  he,  “Would  ye 
have  any  objections  to  lettin’  me  take  a pictur  of 
ye  as  ye  are  now?” 

I looked  at  him  a minute.  “Ah,”  says  I,  “good 
gintleman,  if  ye  had  on  your  heart  the  grief  I 
have,  ye  wouldn’t  make  fun  of  a poor  Irishman  in 
distress.” 

“Oh,  me  poor  man,”  says  he,  “God  knows  it’s 
not  fun  I maint!  But  it  vexes  me  to  know  ye’re 
in  distress.”  He  put  his  han’  in  his  pocket  Tvith 
this,  and  he  pulled  out  silver  out  of  it.  “I  can 
aisily  spare  a shillin’  or  two,”  says  he,  “to  a frien’ 
in  distress.” 

I wasn’t  a bit  angry  at  him,  for  (God  bliss 
him!)  I knew  it  was  out  of  the  kindliness  of  his 
heart  he  maint  it.  “Good  gintleman,”  says  I,  “put 
your  money  in  y’r  pocket,  and  may  God  multiply 
it  to  ye!  But  the  wealth  of  Spain,”  says  I, 
“couldn’t  relieve  thd  distress  that’s  over  me.”  And 
then  and  there  I toul’  him  me  whole  story,  and 


132 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


he  come  in,  and  sat  down  on  the  grass  beside  me, 
listenin’  to  it,  and  God  knows  he  nearly  made 
meself  cry  when  I seen  the  tears  risin’  in  his 
eyes,  and  he  snifterin’  to  try  to  keep  them  back. 
He  actially  fumed  when  he  heerd  about  the  fella 
that  had  ordered  me,  like  a dog,  out  of  his  shop 
for  an  Irish  tramp. 

“Why,”  says  he,  shakin’  his  fist  in  me  face — 
“why  didn’t  ye  smash  that  hound’s  bones  for 
him?”  I got  a better  opinion  of  Scotchmen  then 
than  I had  been  carryin’  in  me  heart  for  some 
days  back. 

The  short  and  the  long  of  it  was,  he  then  told 
me  that  he  was  wan  o’  these  men  that  drew  the 
picturs  ye  see  in  the  papers  and  in  books,  and  he 
was  then  stoppin’  in  a farm-house  near  by,  where 
he  insisted  I should  go  with  him;  and  he’d  get  me 
employment  there,  whilst  he’d  put  advartisements 
in  the  papers  and  write  letter  to  them  about 
Paidin,  givin’  his  marks  and  tokens,  to  see  if  any 
wan  could  give  information  as  to  his  whereabouts 
— and  he’d  also  inform  all  the  police  barracks  all 
roun’,  to  put  them  on  the  trace  of  the  craiture. 
It’s  seldom  ever  I felt  as  soft-hearted  as  I did  lis- 
tenin’ to  this  gintleman’s  talk  and  plans,  and 
seein’  his  consarn  for  a poor  ignorant  tattered 
Irishman. 

Well,  with  him  I went,  and  he  got  me  employ 


WEE  PAIDIN 


133 


from  the  farmer  he  stopped  with;  and  lost  no 
time  doin’  all  he  was  to  do  and  all  he  could  do  to 
find  Paidin.  I waited  and  waited,  and  worked, 
though  me  heart  wasn’t  in  me  work.  But  day 
after  day  come  and  went,  and  neither  word  nor 
sign  i’  Paidin.  And  at  long  and  at  last,  for  I 
couldn’t  stan’  the  fret  of  it,  I wan  day  dropped 
the  han’ful  o’  corn  I was  cuttin’,  took  the  hook 
in  under  me  arm,  and  axin’  God’s  blissin’,  set  out 
afore  me  through  Scotian’.  I didn’t  even  wait 
either  to  lift  me  wages  or  to  thank  the  good  gintle- 
man  that  showed  me  such  kindness.  This  last  put 
sore  on  me,  but  I knew  if  I give  him  a hint  i’  me 
goin’,  he’d  put  a stop  to  it.  But  I axed  the  good 
God  to  reward  him. 

For  five  weary  weeks  then  I wandered  back  and 
forrid,  up  and  down,  workin’  wan  day,  and  then 
travelin’  three  days,  on  the  stren’th  of  it,  makin’ 
enquiries  everywhere  I went,  and  from  every  wan 
I met  with,  but  gettin’  sorra  a sign,  or  wan  word 
of  hope  to  cheer  me  on  me  journey.  And  at  the 
en’  of  that  time  I foun’  meself  again  in  Glesgow,  a 
sad  sight  different,  and  ageder  man  than  him 
landed  in  it  two  months  afore.  And  in  a sort  of 
a half-draim  I put  me  foot  aboord  the  Darry  boat, 
and  from  Darry  straggled  home.  But  when  I 
come  near  home  I waited  for  night  to  fall.  I 


134 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


didn’t  know  how  I’d  meet  a neighbor,  or  how  I’d 
walk  into  me  own  cowl’,  desarted  cabin.  When 
the  night  come  down,  I staggered  on. 

“Mary,”  says  I,  when  the  graveyard  come  in 
sight — “Mary,  a mhilis*  goin’  away,  me  last 
words  was  over  ye;  cornin’  back  me  first  words 
’ill  be  to  ye  likewise!  Sad  wans  they’ll  be,  but 
sure  ye’re  beyond  the  reach  of  heartbr’ak  now — 
and  to  the  great  God  I wish  (if  it  was  His  will) 
that  I was  with  ye,  Mary — Mary,  a theagair  mo 
chroidhe!”  f 

I turned  into  the  little  graveyard.  The  moon 
was  up.  On  Mary’s  grave,  as  I come  to  it,  I seen  a 
somethin’  dark  lyin’,  and  then  I heerd  a quiet 
cryin’.  As  I run  forrid  to  it  the  eyes  i’  me  was 
blinded,  and  me  heart  baitin’  so  that  it  rocked  me 
till  I thought  I would  fall.  “Could  it  be?”  I 
tried  to  ask  meself.  But  that  minnit  there  was  a 
scream,  and  I was  caught  roun’  the  two  legs,  and 
“Oh,  daddie,  daddie,  daddie ! Oh,  daddie,  daddie, 
I knew  you’d  come  home  ! I knew  mammie  would 
fetch  ye  home  to  your  own  Paidin!”  For,  God  be 
thanked,  it  was  himself  and  no  other  was  in  it ! 
“Every  day  and  every  night  this  two  weeks  I’ve 
come  and  I’ve  prayed  and  prayed  to  mammie  for 
to  find  ye,  and  send  ye;  and  I knew  mammie  would 

* Sweet  (love). 

t Treasure  of  my  heart 


WEE  PAIDIN  135 

do  it — I knew  mammie  would  do  it;  she’d  do  any- 
thing for  her  own  wee  Paidin !” 

I wasn’t  three  days  gone  from  the  good  gintle- 
man’s  house  when  Paidin  was  found  and  fetched 
to  him.  He  kept  little  Paidin  for  a couple  of 
weeks,  advartisin’  for  me  all  the  time ; and  when 
he  could  get  no  news  of  me,  thinkin’  it  likely  I 
might  ’a’  gone  home,  he  had  Paidin  sent  on — with 
the  pockets  of  him  not  emp’y. 

“And  down  on  his  mammie’s  grave  on  our  two 
knees,  then  wee  Paidin  and  meself  got,  and  with 
the  white  moon  shinin’  down  into  our  faces,  and 
callin’  on  his  mammie  to  join  us,  from  the  bottom 
of  two  grateful  hearts  we  prayed  up  to  God’s  own 
throne  a prayer,  beseechin’  that  He  wouldn’t  for- 
get to  reward  the  good  gintleman  who  had  foun’ 
His  childer  in  trouble  and  distress,  and  strangers 
as  they  wor  to  him,  without  expectin’  bounty  or 
raicompense,  relieved  them. 

And,  anyhow,  I know  that  God  heerd  wee  Pai- 
din’s  prayer. 


VIII 


WHEN  BARNEY’S  TRUNK  COMES  HOME 

THROUGH  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
three  parishes,  from  Carn  to  Corabor, 
and  from  Corabor  over  to  Knockavin- 
sheeran,  there  wasn’t  such  a lad  again  as  Barney. 
He  was  the  envy  of  the  boys,  the  delight  of  the 
girls,  the  soul  of  a spree,  and  the  fun  of  a fair; 
he  was  the  idol  of  the  youngsters,  and  pointed 
a moral  for  the  ouldsters;  for,  sure,  no  man  nor 
his  mother  within  the  bounds  of  the  barony  ever 
beheld  Barney  Brian  and  a long  face  together  in 
the  one  company. 

He  was  as  merry  as  a mouse  in  a cornstack,  but 
as  rougish  as  a rat  grown  gray  in  mischief  an’ 
morodin’.  The  lark  herself  didn’t  sing  sweeter, 
nor  rise  earlier,  nor  think  less  of  troubles  of  the 
morra.  The  hare  hadn’t  a lighter  foot  scuddin’ 
from  the  corn,  the  throstle  of  Murvagh  Wood  a 
lighter  heart,  nor  the  Bacach  Beag*  a lighter 
purse. 

Barney  wrought  to  any  man  in  the  parish — or 
* Little  Beggarman. 


136 


BARNEY  S TRUNK  COMES  HOME  137 

the  next  to  it — by  day,  arid  he  attended  every 
spree  in  the  parish — or  the  next  to  it — by  night. 
No  wake  missed  Barney;  no  weddin’  missed  Bar- 
ney; no  berral  missed  Barney;  no  christenin’ 
missed  him.  If  there  was  a fair,  Barney  was  the 
second  man  at  it;  if  there  was  a raffle,  Barney 
was  the  first;  and  if  there  was  a dance,  Barney  was 
there;  if  there  was  a scuffle,  me  brave  Barney  was 
everywhere. 

He  owned  as  much  clothes  as  was  on  his  back, 
as  much  land  as  stuck  to  the  soles  of  his  brogues, 
and  as.  much  mother-wit  as  would  dower  a town- 
land.  As  for  the  amount  of  thrickery  in  his  head, 
there’s  no  tellin’  of  it.  Och,  it’s  Barney  was  the 
boy,  out  an’  out! 

And  then  when  the  news  passed  that  Barney 
Brian,  the  Lord  bliss  him ! was  bound  for  Ameri- 
cay,  small  wonder  it  made  the  young  ones  sad, 
and  the  wise  ones  glad.  The  boys  said  sorrow- 
fully: “It’s  the  Lord  go  with  ye,  Barney,  a 

mhic*  for  the  fun  goes  with  ye,  too.”  The  girls 
said:  “Barney,  Barney,  a gradh , sure  it’s  not  off 

with  yourself  ye  would  go,  and  us  never  to  get  a 
glimpse  of  ye  no  more.” 

And  though  the  old  ones  remarked,  when  they 
heard  tell  of  his  setting  out:  “A  tail  win’  to  ye, 
Barney  Brian!”  still  there  was  u something  glis- 

t Pronounced  avic  (son). 


138  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

tening  in  their  eye,  that,  if  it  wasn’t  a tear,  was 
wonderfully  like  one. 

No  matter.  Barney  sailed  away,  and  left  ach- 
ing hearts  behind  him  in  old  Ireland.  To  the  back 
parts  of  Americay  he  went,  where  his  aunt,  who 
paid  his  way  out,  lived.  And  it  wasn’t  long, 
either,  me  brave  Barney  was  in  it  till  there  com- 
menced to  come  thunderin’  fine  reports  from  him. 

Barney  never  had  the  poor  mouth,  anyhow; 
still,  there  must  have  been  something  in  it,  or 
he  wouldn’t  have  made  such  a blow  out  of  noth- 
ing. He  said  the  goold  was  for  the  picking  up 
out  there ; that  if  ould  Parra  Mor,  the  miser  that 
saved  up  the  thirty-five  guineas  in  the  ould  stockin’ 
he  used  to  keep  up  the  chimbley,  was  out  there,  his 
teeth  would  water. 

As  for  himself,  he  was  paid  like  a prince  for 
doin’  sorra  a ha’porth  under  the  sun  but  march- 
ing around  like  a drum-major,  from  cock-crow 
to  candle-light,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and 
a clean  collar  every  day  of  the  week,  giving  plenty 
of  good  hard  abuse  to  a gang  of  navvymen  that 
was  putting  the  bone  through  the  skin  trying  to 
please  him. 

He  said  that  himself  and  the  President  of 
Americay  (who  lived  next  door  but  one  to  him) 
was  as  pack  as  pick-pockets,  and  that  the  Presi- 
dent wished  to  be  remembered  to  John  Burns 


BARNEY’S  TRUNK  COMES  HOME  139 

(the  tailor  at  home,  who  read  the  papers),  which 
put  the  same  John  so  far  past  himself  that,  going 
to  the  chapel  on  Sunday,  he  wore  his  castor-hat 
to  the  one  side,  and  only  noticed  the  naybors 
with  a nod;  but  he  gave  Father  Dan  the  bow  of 
a Lord  Mayor’s  dancing  masther. 

The  next  word  come  from  Barney,  two  ladies 
were  paying  him,  he  said,  for  the  privilege  of 
driving  him  through  the  streets  and  parks  in  a 
carriage  that  the  two  townlands  of  Thrummin 
Upper  and  Thrummin  Lower  couldn’t  buy  the 
goold  paint  for  alone.  And  they  dressed  him 
in  a castor-hat,  and  goold  buttons,  and  white 
trousers. 

Finally,  the  glad  news  came  from  him  that  he 
was  settled  for  life  as  a timber  merchant,  and 
that  he  had  for  customers  some  of  the  biggest  and 
greatest  men  in  Americay : and  all  the  parish  was 
delighted. 

True  it  is,  Long  Andy’s  oldest  son,  John,  of 
the  Moor,  wrote  home  that  as  reports  went  he 
didn’t  believe  Barney  Brian  was  coming  the  speed 
he  might  in  the  States,  for  that  the  same  raking, 
roving,  rambling  spirit  that  made  him  in  Ireland, 
marred  him  there;  that  he  was  up  to  his  neck 
in  hot  water  since  he  came  out — no  sooner  in  a job 
than  he  was  out  of  it;  that  from  being  a gaffer  at 
first,  he  was  promoted  down  to  a footman,  and  so 


140  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

on,  from  bad  to  worse,  till,  at  the  present  time 
(so  Long  Andy’s  oldest  son,  John,  of  the  Moor, 
said)  he  was  peddlin’  matches  on  the  streets. 

But,  good  luck  to  ye  ! Long  Andy’s  oldest  son, 
John,  of  the  Moor,  wasn’t  going  to  make  the 
neighbors  believe  this  of  such  a genius  as  Barney 
Brian;  the  priest  of  the  parish  with  the  Bishop 
at  his  back  couldn’t  do  that.  Small  fear!  Long 
Andy’s  oldest  son,  John,  of  the  Moor,  might  bet- 
ter have  saved  his  wind  to  cool  his  stirabout,  and 
got  a deal  more  thanks,  and  far  more  respect, 
for  his  pains. 

It  was  a brisk  evening  in  the  beginning  of  the 
winter — Hughey  Ban,  Pat  Haig’s  son,  who  had 
been  in  Americay  for  five  months,  the  summer 
was  a twelvemonth  afore,  called  it  “The  Fall,” 
— when  lo  and  behold  ye ! all  Knockagar  was  set 
a-goin’  with  the  news  that  Newcome  John,  the  car- 
man, said  no  less  a mortial  nor  Barney  Brian  him- 
self was  come  home  from  Americay,  that  he  was 
then  on  his  way  to  Knockagar,  and  must  arrive 
inside  an  hour’s  time. 

And  if  that  wasn’t  the  sight ! The  very  cripples 
from  the  rheumatiz,  that  didn’t  make  a bigger 
journey  for  the  past  twelvemonth  than  from  their 
bed  to  the  siostog  in  the  corner,  and  from  the  sios- 
tog  in  the  corner  back  to  their  bed  again,  got  up 
and  ran  out  to  welcome  Barney  Brian  back  to  old 


BARNEY’S  TRUNK  COMES  EIOME  141 

Ireland  once  more;  and  the  old  ones  with  the 
givin’  sight,  that  couldn’t  hardly  find  the  way  to 
their  mouths,  come  rubbin’  their  eyes  to  have  a 
good  look  at  him;  and  the  very  corpses — or  they 
were  as  good  as  corpses — on  the  sick  beds,  called 
for  a grip  of  Barney’s  hand,  and  a thimble  of 
whisky  in  honor  of  the  occasion. 

A dance,  and  a real  good,  right  royal,  rollick- 
ing spree  there  was  in  Tim  Lenihan’s  barn,  to 
celebrate  the  home-coming  of  Barney  the  Rover. 
And  it  was  fresh,  indeed,  he  looked,  with  the 
smallest  little  taste  of  the  Yankee  in  his  look  and 
in  his  talk.  And  trim  and  neat  was  he,  as  dandy 
as  the  gentleman  he  was  cut  out  to  be. 

Only,  he  had  no  Americay  trunk;  just  a little 
hand-bag — a pormantle,  he  called  it:  for  his 
trunk,  it  would  seem,  went  astray  somehow  (as  ill- 
luck  would  have  it) , coming  off  the  boat,  and  had 
gone  up  the  Tyrone  side. 

He  passed  the  remark  that,  not  being  as  light 
as  Micky  John  Oonah’s  big  Americay  box,  the 
time  it  fell  open  by  mistake,  when  the  boys  were 
carrying  it  home,  and  showed  just  two  dirty  col- 
lars and  a red  hankerchief  lying  in  the  bottom, 
he  couldn’t  look  after  it  as  he’d  wish,  and  had  to 
hand  it  over  to  the  care  of  a cartman  that  sent  it 
on  the  wrong  track;  so  he’d  have  to  wait  on  it 
a couple  of  days  or  three  before  he’d  get  it. 


142 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


Now  Barney,  since  his  poor  mother  passed 
away,  some  years  gone,  had  neither  chick,  child, 
kith,  kin,  or  relation,  nor  a handful  of  thatch  he 
could  call  his  own.  But  it  was  he  was  the  lad 
knew  how  to  invite  himself  where  he  wanted,  and 
without  trouble  make  himself  at  home.  Into  Shan 
Mhaire’s,  of  the  Black  Bog — brother-in-law  to 
Hudy  Pat  Hude,  and  father  to  young  Mickey 
Shan  Mhaire;  a warm  house,  in  troth — he  walked, 
on  the  second  day  of  his  arrival.  And  you  may 
swear  it  was  they  was  the  glad  people  to  see  Bar- 
ney. It  was: 

“God  save  all  here,  and  how  are  ye,  Shan 
Mhaire?  And  Shiela,  good  woman,  how  do  ye 
stand  it  yourself?  And  how  are  all  the  childre? 
God  bliss  them  all — and  all  of  us  this  day  1”  says 

Barney. 

And  “Ceud  mile  failte  romhat,  a Bhairnie! 
The  blessin’  o’  God  about  ye ! an’  is  it  yourself’s 
in  it  at  all,  at  all?  An’  it’s  from  the  bottom  of 
me  heart  I’m  glad  to  see  ye.  Is  it  fall  from  the 
skies  ye  did?  Man-a-man!  how  are  ye,  anyhow? 
An’  but  this  is  the  glad  day  for  me,”  said  Shan. 

And  “The  Lord  be  good  to  us  all,  an’  save  us 
from  misfortunes!  sure  it’s  not  Barney  Brian  we 
have  in  it?  Orrah,  Barney,  a leanbh,  but  it’s  wel- 
come ye  are,  an’  my  seven  thousand  blessin’s  be 
on  ye!  How  is  every  bone  in  your  body?  Bar- 


BARNEY’S  TRUNK  COMES  HOME  143 

ney,  Barney,  Barney,  a gradh!  ye’re  welcome  back 
to  old  Ireland,  an’  that  ye  may  have  the  good  luck 
with  ye,  but  it’s  meself’s  glad  to  see  ye!”  said 
Shiela. 

And  “Barney,  a chara,  draw  yerself  up  to  the 
fire,  an’  take  this  sait,  for  in  troth  ye’re  as  wel- 
come as  the  flowers  o’  May.  You,  Jaimie,  a mhic, 
an’  the  rest  of  you  childre,  draw  in  your  bare 
shins,  an’  sit  round  an’  make  room  for  Barney, 
the  sowl,  till  he  sees  a gleed  o’  the  fire,  for  the 
craiture  must  be  starved. — Run  away  with  ye 
now,  Jaimie,  an’  play  yourselves,  or  slip  over  to 
Rosie  Mughan’s  an’  get  the  Bacach  Fada  to  put 
queskins,  an’  guesses  on  yous.  Now,  Barney,  mo 
chuisle,  sait  yourself  down,  an’  give  us  some  of  the 
wonders  while  I fill  the  pipe  for  ye,”  said  Shan. 

“Thanky,  thanky,  Shan,”  Barney  said;  “an’  me 
heart’s  thanks  to  your  good  woman,  Shiela,  like- 
wise, for  your  nayborly  welcome ; for  in  troth  it’s 
kind,  an’  the  crame  of  kindness  both  of  yous  is, 
and  always  was  known  to  be. 

“It’s  often  an’  often,  when  I was  among  the 
black  strangers,  an’  gettin’  the  cowl  shoulder  an’ 
the  blue  look  stranger  gives  stranger  in  thon  coun- 
try over  thonder — it’s  often  an’  often  then  I 
thought  of  Shan  Mhaire  an’  his  good  wife  Shiela, 
an’  the  sort  of  welcome  wan  got,  whether  friend 
or  stranger,  from  them,  if  wan  ever  chanced  to 


144 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


cross  the  Black  Bog;  an’  I’d  say  to  meself:  ‘God 
be  with  ye,  Shan  Mhaire;  and  your  good  wife, 
Shiela,  that  ever  had  the  warm  word,  the  hearty 
welcome,  an’  the  sate  in  the  chimley  corner  for 
them  come  across  ye.’  Troth,  it’s  many’s  the  time 
I said  it.” 

And  Shiela  said:  “Kind  father  to  ye,  Barney; 
but  it’s  grateful  we  are  for  your  respects;  but 
meself  an’  Shan  never  did  much  to  desarve  it. 
More  shame  for  us,  if  we  wouldn’t  be  always  glad 
to  see  a naybor,  or  a naybor’s  chile;  an’  a kind 
word  an’  a sate  in  the  corner  didn’t  cost  us  much. 

“When  a fren’  come  to  see  us,  it  was  we  was 
under  the  compliment.  An’  as  for  the  stranger, 
sure  we’d  be  doing  no  more  nor  the  black  savage 
himself  would  do  in  offerin’  welcome  an’  a shelter. 
When  God  blesses  us  with  the  bit  an’  the  sup  (an’ 
it’s  thankful  to  Him  we  are  for  that  same,  day  an’ 
night),  an’  the  roof  over  our  heads,  He’ll  surely 
do  no  worse  by  us,  nor  think  no  less  of  us,  for 
knowin’  the  stranger  an’  the  wanderer — they’re 
as  much  His  friends  as  them  lives  in  a castle — 
maybe  more.” 

And  “True  for  ye,”  Shan  said. 

And  “True  for  ye,  thanks  be  to  Him!”  Bar- 
ney Brian  said. 

“But  it’s  home  again  from  Amerikay  ye  are,” 
Shiela  said,  “an’  tell  me  now,  did  ye,  in  your  thrav- 


BARNEY’S  TRUNK  COMES  HOME  145 

els,  see  or  hear  tell  of  our  wee  Mickey  (may  the 
good  Lord  watch  over  him,  wherever  he  is)  ? He 
is  in  a place  called  Illinoy.” 

“Well,  in  troth  an’  I did  see  wee  Mickey,  Shiela, 
an’  spent  a day  an’  a night  with  him — an’  be  the 
same  token  as  good  a day  an’  a night  as  I had 
from  I left  Ireland  till  I planted  my  toes  in  it 
again — a day  an’  a night  with  Mickey  on  my  way 
here — for  I called  around  through  Illinoy  just 
specially  an’  particularly  to  see  him. 

“An’  bravely  he  looks;  as  clane  stepped  out  a 
young  man,  as  daicent  and  as  ginteel,  as  any  other 
I met  out  of  Ireland.  A credit  I call  Mickey  to 
the  father  an’  mother  that  reared  him — an’  you’d 
say  the  same  yourself  if  ye  saw  him.  But  Shiela, 
good  luck  to  ye,  he  has  sent  ye  home,  with  meself, 
the  present  of  the  makin’  of  as  purty  a dress  as 
ever  went  to  the  Collamore  Chapel — a beauty  it 
is,  an’  fit  for  any  lady  in  the  lan’.” 

“What!”  said  Shiela;  and  “What!”  said  Shan. 
“God  be  good  to  him ! it’s  Mickey  is  the  garsa 
wouldn’t  forget  or  neglect  his  poor  old  mother.” 
“And  God  be  good  to  him  over  again,”  Shan 
said. 

“A  purty  dress?”  Shiela  said. 

“Oh,  a rale  delight,  ma’am,”  Barney  said.  “The 
sight  of  it  will  be  better  nor  three  years  to  your 
life.” 


146  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

“I’m  feelin’  young  when  I think  of  it,  Barney, 
a gradh.” 

“What  will  ye  feel  when  ye  see  it,  then?”  Bar- 
ney said. 

“Ay,  an’,  what  will  she  feel  when  she  wears  it?” 
Shan  said,  with  a sparkling  eye,  and  a shake  of  the 
head  that  showed  a deal  of  satisfaction. 

“Hurrah,  for  ye,  Mickey!”  Shiela  said,  jump- 
ing to  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  cutting  a double 
shuffle,  and  a couple  of  clever  swings  around,  that 
she  didn’t  try  since  her  coortin’  days  afore. 

“My  jewel  are  ye,  Shiela!”  the  admiring  Shan 
said.  “I  knew  it  was  in  ye!  Ye’re  young  yet.” 

“Faix,”  the  knowing  Barney  said,  “I  know 
many  a consaited  bit  of  a girseach,  on  the  lookout 
to  catch  a man,  would  give  half  of  her  fortune  to 
be  able  to  do  that  double-shuffle  an’  the  swings 
round,  with  the  same  graceliness  an’  aise  that 
Shiela’s  after  doin’  it  there.  After  this,  anyone 
in  my  presence  that  refers  to  Shiela  as  an  oul’ 
woman,  I’ll  have  the  pleasure  of  callin’  them  a 
liar.” 

“Hooh!”  said  Shiela,  going  through  another 
figure;  “I’m  as  young  as  I was  eight-an’-thirty 
years  ago.  Shan,  a thaisge,  do  ye  mind  the  night 
long  ago  in  Padh’s  of  the  back  of  the  Hill,  that 
they  had  the  fiddler  from  the  Three-mile-water — 
Devenny  was  his  name — that  we  danced  down  the 


BARNEY  S TRUNK  COMES  HOME  147 

house,  an’  the  Three-mile-water  man  had  to  let 
the  bow  drop  out  of  his  fingers  with  the  pure 
'fatigue,  an’  confess  that  in  all  his  career  he  never 
did  see  such  a piece  of  dancin’,  and  that  we  were 
the  first  pair  of  dancers  ever  made  him  give  in. 

“Shan,  a gradh f I dar’say  you  didn’t  keep  the 
reck’nin’,  but  it’s  eight-an’-thirty  years  ago  this 
night,  the  second  Wen’sday  after  Hallow  Eve, 
an’  it’s  just  awhile  ago  I was  thinkin’  of  it,  an’ 
runnin’  it  over  in  me  mind,  afore  Barney  there 
come  in.  An’,  Shan,  a chuisle,  we’re  as  young  as 
ever!  Jump  on  to  the  floor  here  till  ye  see — an’ 
you,  Barney,  if  Americay  hasn’t  lost  it  to  ye,  you 
can  whistle  us  a reel  that  a fiddler  in  the  parish 
couldn’t  bate.” 

And  no  sooner  said  than  done.  Up  jumped 
Shan  with  the  heart  of  nineteen  under  an  ould 
man’s  coat;  an’  to  it,  like  a pair  of  youngsters  on 
the  edge  of  their  welt,  went  Shan  and  Shiela,  while 
Barney -blew  on  a penny  tin  whistle  he  hauled  out 
of  his  pocket,  an’  struck  them  up  “The  Hare  in 
the  Corn,”  in  a fashion  that  showed  Americay 
didn’t  damage  his  windpipe. 

Heel  and  toe,  toe  and  heel,  swing  about,  hands 
across  and  change  places,  sidey  and  sidey,  back 
and  forrid,  up  and  down,  went  the  ould  pair  on 
the  floor,  with  their  heads  thrown  back  and  their 
cheeks  red,  their  chins  nearly  meetin’  one  minute 


148  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

and  sunderin’  far  the  next — why,  the  very  fire  on 
the  h’arth  caught  the  dancing  like  a disaise,  and 
went  leaping  up  and  down  keeping  time  to  the 
steppin’ ; and  their  big  shadows,  up  the  walls  and 
spreading  over  the  roof,  went  bobbing  and  bob- 
bing, keeping  time  to  all. 

Altogether  it’s  hard  to  tell  where  or  how  it 
would  ail  end  if  the  Bacach  Fada  hadn’t  come 
walking  in  of  the  door  to  them  when  the  play 
was  at  its  height;  and  speechless  he  stood  the 
minute  he  entered,  wondering  what  in  the  name 
of  all  that  was  wonderful  had  come  over  Shan 
Mhaire  and  his  good  woman  Shiela  that  had  set 
them  off  this  way;  and  to  crown  it  all,  Barney 
Brian,  the  come  home  Yankee,  nearly  as  big  a fool 
as  them,  sitting  in  the  corner,  with  his  two  cheeks 
like  bagpipes,  puffin’  at  the  tin  whistle. 

And  if  the  Bacach  Fada  w^as  speechless,  maybe 
me  brave  Shan  and  Shiela  wasn’t  ten  times  more 
so.  And  upon  my  socks  they  stopped  the  bouncing 
on  the  floor  soon  and  sudden  anyhow.  For  the 
Bacach  Fada  was  the  pattern  for  the  parish — first 
to  Mass  on  Sunday,  nearest  the  priest  while  it  was 
going  on,  and  the  last  away  from  it,  as  well  as  the 
greatest  and  loudest  crier  during  the  sarmon.  No 
one  ever  thought  of  disputing  his  right  (next  to 
Father  Dan)  to  look  after  the  morals  of  the 


BARNEY’S  TRUNK  COMES  HOME  149 

people,  young  and  old — and  sure  enough  there  was 
nothing  he  went  sorer  again’  than  dancing. 

And  then  for  Shiela  and  Shan,  the  pair  of 
them  with  one  foot  in  the  grave  and  the  other 
hardly  out  of  it,  to  be  caught  by  him  hopping  and 
bouncing  like  a pair  of  foolish  frogs  below  in  the 
Mearn  of  a spring  morning — ’twas  small  wonder 
the  blush  came  into  Shiela’s  withered  cheek,  and 
Shan  slunk  away  into  a seat  in  the  shadow! 

And  “Ha,  ha,  ha !”  says  Shiela,  forcing  a laugh, 
“ ’tis  no  wonder  that  you  look  at  us.  Ould  fools 
they  say  is  always  the  worst  of  fools.  But,  ye 
know,  ’twas  the  news  Barney  here — the  blessin’  of 
God  be  about  him  an’  his — fetched  us,  that  put  us 
thinkin’  of  ould  times  when  we  were  young  an’ 
light-hearted,  an’  knew  little  an’  thought  less  of 
the  troubles  of  the  work,  till  we  thought  we  were 
young  agin,  an’  got  out  on  the  floor  to  see  was 
our  bones  as  nimble  as  our  hearts — God  be  with 
them  times!” 

True  enough,  the  Bacach  Fada  didn’t  say  much 
but  it  was  easy  seen  he  might  be  better  pleased. 

He  only  said:  “Ay,  just  so,  just  so!  Cornin’  to 
the  house,  I was  makin’  a wee  wager  to  meself 
that  I’d  find  Shiela  and  Shan — an  ould  couple  on 
the  varge  of  Kingdom-come — makin’  their  sowls. 
I dar’say  it  would  be  oncommon  pleasant  if  we 
could  dance  our  way  intil  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven, 


150 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


but  I’ve  read  a dale  of  the  Scriptirs  an’  I must  say 
I’ve  never  yet  met  the  rayceipt.” 

And  Shiela,  good  woman,  was  cut  to  the  bone. 
Small  wonder! 

Shan  didn’t  show  his  face  out  of  the  shadow  for 
the  remainder  of  that  night. 

But  moryah!  the  Bacach  Fada  was  soon  paci- 
fied. For  Barney  he  told  him  that  he  bought,  spe- 
cially for  himself,  on  the  quay  of  Americay,  as  he 
was  about  to  leave,  the  purtiest  rosary  ever  he  laid 
his  two  eyes  on;  it  was  a quarther-stone  weight  if 
it  was  an  ounce,  and  every  individual  baid  on  it 
was  the  size  of  a chicken’s  egg. 

This  was  the  more  particularly  pleasing  to  the 
Bacach  Fada  because,  on  last  Sunday,  the  Bacach 
Beag  (a  pious  craiture  who  gathered  his  share 
likewise)  had  come  to  the  chapel  with  a string 
of  beads  that  put  his — the  largest  in  the  parish 
before  that — into  the  shade,  and  made  him  pray 
with  more  bitterness  than  usual. 

When  he  thought  of  the  vengeance  he’d  now 
wreak  on  the  Bacach  Beag,  praying  his  loudest 
and  most  tempting  at  him  across  the  aisle,  with 
Barney’s  baids  dangling  before  his  eyes,  he  got 
into  great  good  humor,  and  poor  Shiela’s  reputa- 
tion was  saved. 

Of  course,  all  were  sorry  to  find  that  Barney’s 
trunk  had  gone  by  mistake  up  the  Tyrone  way,  and 


BARNEY’S  TRUNK  COMES  HOME  151 

didn’t  yet  come  to  hand,  but  even  the  prospective 
pleasure  was  keen. 

Shiela  invited  Barney,  to  be  sure,  to  make  him- 
self at  home  in  her  house,  such  as  it  was,  for  the 
next  few  days — and  she  couldn’t  do  less. 

But  Barney  had  too  much  decency  in  him  to 
impose  on  her,  especially  when  he  had  a wide 
field  and  plenty  of  game  before  him. 

On  the  next  night  he  stepped  over  to  Taig-a- 
Gallagher’s,  intending — for  Taig  was  well-to-do, 
and  a bit  near-going — to  stop  a good  part  of  a 
week  there. 

“Taig,”  says  he,  “ye’ll  have  to  excuse  me  for 
the  delay  in  lettin’  those  little  presents  reach  ye.” 

“What — which — what  presents?”  Taig  asked, 
naturally  a bit  surprised. 

“Oh,  why,  didn’t  I not  tell  ye,  Taig?  Why,  I 
surely  thought  I sent  ye  word,  the  first  thing  after 
I come  home — or  if  I didn’t  it  was  me  own  fault, 
for  I know  I had  it  on  me  mind  to  do  so — send  ye 
word  that  I had  stepped  off  at  Texas — on  my  way 
coming  from  Washington — to  see  your  son  John 
— daicent,  clever  boy  he  is,  an’  a credit  to  his 
country  no  less  than  to  his  people,  and  so  his 
landlady  tould  me — to  see  your  son  John,  an’ 
he  sent  several  little  articles  of  some  value  to 
yourself  and  the  weans — daicent,  handsome  pres- 
ents they  are  too,  like  the  man  sent  them. 


152 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


“They’re  in  my  trunk — an’  bad  snuff  to  the 
porters,  and  good  corns  to  their  toes  every  day 
ever  they  wheel  a hand-cart! — Wan  of  them  sent 
my  trunk  astray  up  the  Tyrone  way  an’  Fra  ex- 
pectin’ it  every  day.  The  day  afore  I left  him,  too, 
John  got  appointed  Under  Sharriff  of  Texas  with 
a salary  of  a pound  a day  an’  foun’.” 

Now,  Taig  was  the  man  to  look  at  the  two 
sides  of  a ha’penny  before  parting  with  it;  but, 
there  and  then,  Barney  got  the  hearty  invite  to 
call  the  house  his  own  for  a week;  and  he  took  it 
without  debate.  And,  furthermore,  as  it  turned 
out  he  was  suffering  from  a disease  on  the  lungs 
for  which  the  doctors  had  ordered  him  his  fill  and 
plenty  of  chicken  broth  (so  Barney  himself  said, 
and  who  should  know  better).  Taig’s  stock  of 
chickens  was  remarkably  smaller  when  Barney’s 
week  with  them  was  done. 

Micky  John  Hude  came  in  for  attention  from 
Barney  next — for,  strange  to  say,  the  trunk  had 
not  yet  arrived,  though  Barney  was  daily  expect- 
ing it.  Micky  had  his  oldest  son,  Donal,  in  a 
broker’s  office  in  Quebec. 

“It’s  very  strange,”  Barney  remarked  when 
greetings  were  over  and  he  had  seated  himself  at 
Micky’s  big  blazing  fire,  resolving  within  himself 
to  hold  the  seat  for  the  next  few  days,  “it’s  very 
strange  entirely,  Micky,  that  Paddy  Trower’s  little 


BARNEY’S  TRUNK  COMES  HOME  153 

garsun,  Jimmy,  didn’t  carry  ye  the  word  that  I 
b’leeve  to  the  best  of  my  belief  I sent  with  him 
the  very  night  I landed — that  I had  called  at 
Quaybec  to  see  Donal,  and  that  he  sent  a lovely 
shawl  with  me  to  his  mother — the  Lord  give  her 
health  to  wear  it ! — an’  some  other  little  things. 
I have  got  them  safe  in  my  trunk,  but  the  trunk, 
I suppose  ye  heerd,  went  astray  up  the  Tyrone 
side — sweet  bad  luck  to  them  put  it  astray — and 
I don’t  expect  it  sooner  nor  Wen’sday.” 

“And  Barney,  a stor,  what  sort’s  the  shawl?” 
Sally  asked. 

“Oh,  a purty  one,  ma’am;  the  likes  of  it  wasn’t 
seen  in  these  parts,  I’ll  venture  to  say  anyhow, 
since  Methusalem’s  cat  cut  its  eye  teeth,  nor  won’t 
be  seen  again  for  some  time  to  come.  I b’leeve  it’s 
silk  or  something  of  that  sort,  with  a whole  lot  of 
different  colors  in  it,  every  different  way  you 
look  at  it;  but  myself  can’t  rightly  say,  for  I’m 
not  well  varsed  in  them  things.” 

“Well,  God  be  good  to  poor  Donal,  it’s  him- 
self wouldn’t,  forget  me.  I’ll  warrant  now,  Bar- 
ney, that  same  shawl  ’ill  wear  me  well  1” 

“I  only  wish,  Sally,  that  ye  may  niver  die  till 
ye  wear  it  out,  and  then  a blackenin’  box’ll  make  a 
coffin  for  ye,  if  it’s  taken  in  at  the  sides.” 

“An’  does  Donal’  think  of  marryin’  now  at  all, 
at  all?”  little  Shusie  asked. 


154 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


“Well,  meself  doesn’t  well  know,  if  ye’d 
b’leeve  himself  he’ll  not  marry  till  he  comes  home 
to  Ireland  to  get  the  wife.  But  if  I’d  b’leeve  me 
own  senses  when  I saw  him  gallivantin’  about 
with  the  Lord  Mayor  of  Quaybec’s  daughter  at 
the  Quaybec  Harvest  Fair,  I’d  be  after  expectin’ 
that  if  there’s  e’er  a poor  Irish  girl  silly  enough 
to  be  keeping  a warm  spot  in  her  heart  for  Donal, 
she’ll  cry  for  it  some  day.” 

Micky  John  Hude’s  was  a home  for  Barney  for 
four  days — and  a warm  home. 

Still,  the  trunk  hadn’t  come,  although  he  was 
mysteriously  getting  daily  intelligence  of  it,  and 
there  was  great  furore  all  over  the  countryside 
about  it.  The  fact  was  that  the  crops,  and  the 
weather,  and  the  political  outlook  were  all  com- 
pletely forgotten  at  the  Knockagar  forge,  and  in 
Micky  Thomas’s  the  shoemaker’s,  and  at  Crooked 
Neil,  the  tailor’s,  now  the  subject  of  Barney’s  lost 
trunk  was  started. 

The  debate  on  the  subject  waxed  as  warm  as 
ever  a debate  on  politics  did.  And  there  were 
many,  very  many,  shrewd  conjectures  as  to  its 
probable  whereabouts,  and  wise  suggestions  as  to 
the  best  means  of  capturing  it  soon,  and  fetching 
it  home  quickly. 

Barney  lived  many  months  on  that  trunk’s  repu- 
tation By  that  time  he  had  laid  a great  part  of 


BARNEY’S  TRUNK  COMES  HOME  155 

the  countryside  under  tribute,  and  left  few  dis- 
tricts undone.  Putting  two  and  two  together,  it 
would  appear  that  Barney  had  seen  in  Americay 
every  man,  woman,  and  child  that  ever  left  that 
part  of  Donegal,  and  crossed  the  ocean;  and 
moreover,  that  he  had  been  intrusted  with  pres- 
ents from  every  mother’s  soul  of  them. 

He  had  called  on  neighbors’  childre  alike  in 
New  York  and  San  Francisco,  Manitoba  and  At- 
lantic City,  Montana  and  the  borders  of  Mexico, 
and  he  must  have  had  a trunk  the  size  of  a barn 
to  carry  all  the  presents  sent  with  him  to  the  old 
ones  at  home. 

It’s  now  forty-five  years,  and  some  odd  months 
into  the  bargain,  since  the  great  day  on  which 
Barney  came  home  from  Americay.  His  trunk  is 
still  up  the  Tyrone  way,  and  still  expected,  and  it 
cannot  come  too  soon  or  too  sudden : as  Barney 
promised  our  mothers  and  fathers,  they,  in  their 
turn,  have  been  as  liberal  with  us,  so  that  at  the 
present  time  within  the  broad  bounds  of  the 
Barony  of  Banagh  there  isn’t,  I suppose,  man, 
woman,  chick  or  chile  that  isn’t  in  the  expecta- 
tion of  big  things  on  that  great  day  when  Bar- 
ney’s Trunk  comes  Home! 


IX 


FIVE  MINUTES  A MILLIONAIRE  * 
HOUGH  ’tis  little  the  world  suspects  it, 


there’s  near  a’most  as  many  fairy  en- 


chantments in  America  as  in  the  Gem 


o’  the  Ocean  itself — and  ’tis  Brian  O’Gaffeney  is 
the  lad  can  swear  to  that. 

And  Brian’s  was  as  quare  a story,  surely,  as 
ever  happened  out  o’  the  Emerald  Isle. 

Brian,  though  he’d  as  good  a wife,  Kitty,  as 
breathed  the  breath  of  Americay,  and  as  brave 
a son  and  winsome  a daughter  as  ever  stepped  in 
Americay  shoeleather,  and  as  trig  and  snug  and 
warm  a little  home  (a  short  ways  from  Central 
Park)  as  you’d  meet  between  here  and  there,  and 
though  he’d  been,  as  he  should  be,  happy  as  a 
mouse  in  a mill  since  the  day  he  married  Kitty 
with  good  luck  for  her  fortune,  the  divil  (for  it 
could  be  no  other)  set  his  mind  workin’  about  mfl- 
lioneers  the  time  Molly  Carney’s  Johnny  sud- 
denly got  the  lump  in  the  contractin’  business,  and 
paid  a barrel  o’  money  for  a yacht  to  rowl  him 

* This  story  is  founded  on  an  old  Irish  folk-tale. 


FIVE  MINUTES  A MILLIONAIRE  157 

round  the  worl’  as  well  as  to  Japan.  Poor  Brian! 
he  moidhered  his  mind  entirely  thinkin’  day  an’ 
night  upon  this,  till  mighty  soon,  from  bein’  the 
happiest  mortal  under  Heaven,  he  became  the 
miserablest  divil  crawlin’  on  two  feet. 

“I  don’t  see,”  he’d  complain,  “what  the  Lord 
had  ag’in’  me,  anyhow,  that  He  wouldn’t  make 
a millioneer  out  o’  me,  same  as  Molly  Carney’s 
Johnny,  or  William  D.  Munibagges,  the  famous 
millioneer,  or  a dozen  more  who  have  a darned 
sight  less  right  to  the  money!” 

The  poor  man’s  peace  o’  mind  went  like  snow 
in  June,  and  when  his  wife  Kitty  tried  to  raison 
with  him,  he  that  used  to  adore  the  ground  she 
walked  on,  cut  her  with  a curse,  and  tould  her 
he’d  never  again  be  happy  till  he  was  either  a 
millioneer  or  a madman. 

And  the  more  he  figured  to  himself  how  he 
could  command  all  the  world’s  happiness,  if  the 
Lord  should  try  him  with  only  ten  million  atself, 
the  more  distracted  he  became.  And  when  at 
last  one  lovely  May  Sunday,  before  he’d  get  over 
the  temper  that  Kitty’s  askin’  him  to  buy  her  a 
summer  dress  Saturday  night  had  sent  him  to  bed 
in,  he  learnt  that  his  handsome  daughter  Peggy 
(who  he  had  marked  out  to  marry  a million) 
wanted  his  blissin’  to  throw  herself  away  on  a 
boy  of  the  Corrigans  who  drove  a truck,  and 


158  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

that  his  son  Tom  was  walkin’  out  a daughter  of 
the  O’Keefes,  whose  father  back  in  Ireland  kept 
only  three  cows,  he  flew  into  a passion  entirely. 
And  him  who  in  all  his  married  years  before  had 
never  raised  his  hand  higher  than  his  voice,  and 
whose  voice  was  never  heard  over  the  threshold, 
swore  he’d  clean  out  the  caravansary — wife,  son, 
and  daughter,  bag,  baggage,  and  belongin’s ! And 
when  they’d  scurried  into  mouse-holes,  and  he 
couldn’t  get  a sinner,  even,  to  answer  him  back, 
he  clapped  his  hat  on  his  head,  and  cryin’  out  for 
the  ten-thousandth  time,  “Why  didn’t  the  Lord 
make  me  William  D.  Munibagges?”  tore  out  o’ 
the  house. 

There’s  a little  rocky  hillock  that  you  may  see 
any  day  in  that  shady  corner  of  the  park  con- 
tagious to  Brian  O’Gaffeney’s  home — a very 
pleasant,  sunny  knowe  it  is  on  a summer  day,  and 
one  that  would  entice  a man  to  come  up  and  lie 
down  and  sleep  (as  many’s  the  time  it  entized 
Brian  till  he  brought  the  park  policeman  on  his 
track) — neighbors  used  to  vow  was  surely  a Fairy 
Hill  if  the  like  was  in  Americay.  And  ’twas  this 
very  hill  Brian  now  steered  for,  his  heart  full  o’ 
blackness.  And  cryin’  out  for  the  thousand  and 
oneth  time,  “Why  didn’t  the  Lord  make  me  Wil- 
liam D.  Munibagges,  anyhow?”  flung  himself  face 
down  on  the  fairy  knowe,  bemoanin’  how  woeful 


FIVE  MINUTES  A MILLIONAIRE  159 

and  vexatious  for  a poor  workin’  man  was  the 
worl’  that  in  his  fool  days  (as  he  now  called  them) 
he  thought  was  heaped  with  happiness. 

And,  Io  and  behold  ye ! he  hadn’t  been  long 
bemoanin’  upon  the  knowe,  when  what  would  you 
have,  but  by  some  wonderful  process,  the  workin’s 
of  which  Brian  himself  can’t  yet  rightly  under- 
stand, he  suddently  found  himself  seated  in  the 
grandest  room  of  one  of  the  gorgeousest  man- 
sions on  Fif ’ Avenoo ! And  he  wasn’t  Brian 
O’Gaffeney  any  longer,  but  William  D.  Muni- 
bagges,  the  famous  millioneer!  Like  statues  in 
every  corner  of  the  room  were  ranged  a gang  o’ 
flunkies  lookin’  like  they’d  greased  themselves  and 
taken  a rowl  in  the  mint,  all  waitin’  for  his  nod 
or  wink  to  leap  like  jumpin’  jacks.  And  there 
was  a truckload  of  letters  on  the  table  beside  him, 
with  a steam  letter  opener  operatin’  them  at  a 
mile  a minute. 

Brian  was  so  dazed  for  the  first  minute  that  he 
couldn’t  believe  his  senses  he  was  railly  William 
D.  Munnibagges,  but  when  his  clerk  handed  him 
a goold  fountain  pen  and  a check  for  a million  to 
sign,  and  he  found  himself  as  slick  as  slivers, 
writin’  “William  D.  Munibagges”  to  the  bottom 
of  it,  he  put  a hearty  “Thanks  be  to  God!”  out 
of  him;  for  he  knew  his  wish  had  come  true. 
While  he  was  mighty  proud  of  the  natural  mil- 


160  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

lioneer  style  in  which  he  wrote  his  name  so  that 
no  one  could  read  it,  he  wondered  what  in  the 
name  of  Lanty  he  was  payin’  away  the  million 
for,  anyhow;  but  he  daren’t  ax  for  fear  to  make 
the  clerk  suspicious.  And,  anyway,  what  did  a 
miserly  million  matter  to  him? 

Of  a suddent,  however,  he  found  himself  puttin’ 
out  of  him  a screech  that  nigh  tore  a hole  in  the 
ceilin’ ! And  he  yelled,  “Crack  the  skull  of  the 
murderer  who’s  drivin’  a spike  through  me  toe!” 

“Your  Honor,”  says  the  head  flunky,  “that’s 
your  gout,  you  know.” 

“Gout!”  says  he.  “Ye  brazen  lump  of  a lob- 
ster, will  ye  stand  there  and  tell  me  to  me  face 
I’ve  got  the  gout?” 

“You  know,  your  Honor,”  says  the  flunky,  “it’s 
been  makin’  your  life  hades  for  fifteen  years 
gone.” 

“Oh,  it  has,  has  it?”  says  Brian,  says  he,  his 
eyes  openin’  to  a new  light. 

“But,”  says  the  flunky,  “with  the  help  of  the 
Lord  and  Dr.  Donnelly,  it’ll  not  grow  very  much 
worse  during  the  remainder  of  your  natural  life.” 

“Thankee  for  the  consolation !”  Brian  snaps  so 
sharp  that  the  flunky  thought  his  nose  was  gone. 
And  to  smother  the  grief  this  news  brought  him, 
Brian  remembered  that  he  now  had  the  best  and 
dearest  of  all  aitables  and  drinkables  underneath 


FIVE  MINUTES  A MILLIONAIRE  161 


the  stars.  So  he  was  gettin’  mighty  pleased  with 
himself  again  when  he  give  the  order,  “Bring  me 
in  a haunch  of  venison  fried  in  lard,  a stuffed  tur- 
key, some  nice  rashers  and  eggs,  a plate  of  pig’s 
feet  with  cabbage,  a bottle  of  every  kind  of  wine 
you’ve  got  in  the  icebox,  and  a box  of  the  dearest 
George  Henry  cigars.” 

The  line  of  flunkies,  like  a rijiment  of  tin  men 
workin’  on  strings,  all  together  threw  up  their 
hands  in  horror,  a look  on  their  face  like  some- 
one stole  their  last  penny,  and  the  head  beetler  of 
them,  bowin’  till  his  three  ends  met,  said,  “We’re 
mighty  sorry,  but  your  Honor  knows  that  on 
your  gout’s  account  you  mustn’t  look  on  liquor  for 
five  years.  And  a cigar  you  daren’t  touch  be- 
cause of  your  insomny.” 

“Insomny!  Me  insomny!  What  the  divil  do 
you  mane,  Sir?”  Brian  yelled,  lookin’  round  for 
somethin’  to  throw  at  him. 

“Why,  you  know,  Sir,  better  than  me,”  says 
the  flunky,  “that  three  hours  a week  is  the  most 
you’ve  slept  in  ten  years.  But,  with  good  care 
and  no  tibbachy,  the  doctor  thinks,  five  years 
from  now  we’ll  have  ye  sleepin’  like  a top  at  least 
three-quarters  of  an  hour  every  night.” 

“Jumpin’  jiminity!”  says  Brian.  And  he 
snaps,  “Then  bring  me  the  venison,  turkey,  rash- 
ers and  eggs,  and  pig’s  feet  and  cabbage ! I’ll  try 


162  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

the  best  I can  to  make  a light  lunch  upon  the 
snacks.” 

The  scoundrel  of  a flunky  just  shook  his  head. 
He  said,  “Your  indigestion,  you  know,  doesn’t 
let  you  eat  any  kind  of  meat  no  more.  Cabbage  is 
poison,  with  your  liver  in  the  state  it  is.  And  I’d 
be  tried  for  me  life  if  I gave  ye  anything  in  the 
shape  of  an  egg.  If  you  railly  feel  hungry,  I’m 
allowed  to  get  you  some  skimmed  milk  with  lime 
water,  and,  at  my  own  risk,  an  onion  pickle  on 
the  side.” 

The  fellow  had  raison  to  thank  Heaven  he  had 
no  rheumatiz  in  his  joints  when  he  jumped  to 
dodge  the  stool  Brian  shied  at  him.  And  Brian 
was  lookin’  around  for  some  other  convenient  re- 
marks to  hand  out  to  the  villain,  when  the  voice 
of  his  clerk  spoke  up  from  somewhere  among  the 
letters: 

“If  you’ll  give  me  a few  minutes  of  your  time, 
Sir,”  says  he,  “there’s  some  communications  here 
that  needs  your  attention.” 

“Checks?”  says  Brian,  says  he,  lookin’  to  see 
where  was  the  clerk’s  head. 

“No,  Sir,”  says  the  clerk;  “but  there’s  two  ton 
o’  letters  from  charitable  societies  requestin’  sums 
that  this  rnornin’  only  total  ninety-nine  million 
three  hundred  and  forty-seven  thousand  six  hun- 
dred and  thirteen  dollars  and  forty  cents.” 


FIVE  MINUTES  A MILLIONAIRE  163 

“Bad  luck  to  them!”  says  Brian,  with  all  his 
heart.  “Them  charitable  societies  are  the  bare- 
facedest  robbers  on  the  worl’s  ridge ! Send  them 
somethin’  to  get  my  name  in  the  papers,  though.” 
“How  much?”  says  the  clerk. 

“Forty  cents,”  says  Brian.  And  then  he  says 
aloud  to  himself.  “That  makes  ninety-nine  mil- 
lion saved  at  one  stroke.  Not  a bad  mornin’s 
work.”  And  he  was  feelin’  good  again.  “Is  that 
my  photographt,”  says  he,  “that  I see  on  the  front 
page  of  the  mornin’s  paper  beyond  you?” 

“It  is,”  says  the  clerk.  “I  wanted  to  tell  you 
about  that.” 

“Let  me  see  it,”  says  Brian,  very  proud  and 
smilin’.  “Them  newspaper  chaps  are  daicent  fel- 
lows. Send  them  a dollar  to  get  a drink.” 

“I  wanted  to  tell  you,”  says  the  clerk,  snappin’ 
the  paper  from  him,  “that  the  rascals  put  in  your 
photographt  as  the  man  who  squeezed  out  of  busi- 
ness a poor  widow  in  Pennsylvany,  who  was  strug- 
glin’ to  raise  a large  family  of  small  childher,  two 
of  whom  died  yesterday  of  starvation.  ‘Robber’ 
and  ‘Murdherer’  are  the  aisiest  names  they  call 
ye.” 

“Send  the  scoundrels  a writ!”  roars  Brian  as 
the  gout  in  his  toe  made  him  bounce  like  a rubber 
ball,  yellin’,  “Holy  Murther!” 

“If  you  try  that,”  says  the  clerk,  “they’ll  never 


164  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

rest  till  they  rake  up  a rijiment  of  widows  out  of 
whose  mouths  and  the  mouths  of  their  helpless 
childer  you’ve  stolen  bite  and  sup.” 

“Ye  lie!”  says  Brian.  “I  never  in  all  my  life 
stole  bite  or  sup  from  widow  or  child.” 

“Of  course,”  says  the  clerk,  says  he,  “it  wasn’t 
stealin’;  ’twas  in  the  interests  of  trade.  But,” 
says  he,  “we’d  better  get  ahead  with  the  mail. 
Here’s  a warnin’  from  an  arnychist  with  the  skull 
and  crossbones  on  it,  and  one  from  the  Black 
Hand  requistin’  a hundred  thousand  dollars  within 
twenty-four  hours.” 

“I’m  ruinated  out  an’  out,”  says  Brian. 

“And  givin’  minute  descriptions  where  it  is  to 
be  put,”  says  the  clerk.  “A  man  from  Ioway  writes 
to  say  that  if  you  don’t  send  him  twenty-five  thou- 
sand by  return  mail,  he’ll  give  the  papers  full  par- 
ticulars of  how  your  great-granduncle  stole  a dol- 
lar from  a blind  beggar.  Another  letter  is  to  tell 
you  that  the  treasurer  of  the  Consolidated  Punkin 
Pie  Company,  which  you  chiefly  own,  has  gone  to 
Canada  with  the  cash.  And  this  here  is  a letter 
sayin’  that  the  Hoboken  Grand  National  Trust 
Company,  which  you  lent  a quarter  of  a million 
to  three  months  ago,  has  busted;  but  they’re  sure 
they  can  pay  seven  cents  on  the  dollar,  possibly 
eight.” 


FIVE  MINUTES  A MILLIONAIRE  165 

“Anything  more?”  says  Brian  with  a heart- 
rendin’  groan. 

But  the  clerk  was  choked  off  instantly  by*  Wil- 
liam D.  Munibagges’  confidential  adviser  come 
tearin’  in  to  announce  that  the  stock  they  had  put 
a million  into,  week  before  last,  in  behopes  of 
makin’  a fortune,  had  gone  to  smithereens  en- 
tirely, but  they  could  get  fifty  dollars  for  the  out- 
fit, if  he  sold  quick.  He  was  mighty  sorry,  too,  to 
inform  Brian  that  the  ten  thousand  workers  in 
their  hook  and  eye  factory  had  struck  for  double 
wages,  half  hours,  and  a free  lunch. 

“Tell  the  blackguards,”  shouted  Brian,  “to  go 
to  Fiddler’s  Green,  nineteen  miles  beyond  a hotter 
place !” 

“No,  no,”  says  the  other,  “we’ve  got  to  give 
them  everything  they  ax,  otherwise  we’ll  not  only 
lose  our  fifty  million  contract  for  hooks  and  eyes 
for  the  Jap  Army,  but  likewise  have  to  forfeit 
half  of  all  you’re  worth  in  the  worl’  for  breach  of 
contract.” 

“ ’Tis  glad  tidin’s  you  like  to  bring,”  says  Brian, 
speakin’  with  vinom  of  a sarpint.  “Come  again, 
and  come  often!” 

Only  the  bad  news  had  one  advantage,  anyhow. 
It  mightily  relieved  the  sufferin’  in  his  toe,  by 
liftin’  the  weight  o’  the  pain  to  his  heart. 

And  when  the  confidential  man,  divin’  out  o’  the 


i66 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


room,  had  his  stomach  rammed  by  Mr.  Muni- 
bagges’  private  lawyer  flyin’  in,  Brian  from  the 
bottom  of  his  heart  prayed  the  divil’s  good  cure 
to  him. 

“Mr.  Munibagges,”  says  the  lawyer,  spittin’ 
pieces  of  the  confidential  man’s  waistcoat  out  of 
his  mouth,  “I’ve  a piece  of  delightful  news  for 
ye.” 

“Thanks  be  to  Heaven,”  says  Brian,  says  he, 
dhrawin’  a sigh  of  relief.  “Rowl  it  out,”  says  he. 

“That  customs  case  ag’in’  your  wife,”  says  the 
lawyer,  “for  tryin’  to  smuggle  in  a hundred  thou- 
sand dollars’  worth  of  dresses  and  jew’lry,  can  be 
squared  without  her  spendin’  one  hour  in  jail,  by 
payin’  only  half  a million  and  forfeitin’  the  goods 
likewise,  which  I consider  dirt  cheap.” 

Poor  Brian  just  put  a groan  out  o’  him.  His 
speeches  had  left  him. 

“And  the  newspapers  promise,”  says  the  law- 
yer, “to  stop  printin’  her  picture  and  yours  under 
the  title  of  ‘High  Tariff  Evangelists’  if  we  buy 
a page  advertisement  in  every  Sunday  issue  for 
five  years,  and  become  life  subscribers  at  mil- 
lioneer  rates — which  of  course  we’ll  be  delighted 
to  do.” 

“Delighted,  to  be  sure,”  says  Brian,  with  a 
tongue  that  would  turn  cream. 

“To  be  sure,  yes,”  says  the  lawyer,  “we  can’t 


FIVE  MINUTES  A MILLIONAIRE  167 

afford  to  have  the  papers  ag’in’  us  at  this  critical 

time,  when,  as  maybe  you  haven’t  yet  heard ” 

“Don’t  hide  it  from  me,”  says  Brian;  “if  it’s 
as  good  as  the  rest,  don’t  keep  it  from  me.” 

“As  maybe  you  haven’t  heard,”  went  on  the 
lawyer,  “the  crowner’s  jury  who  were  locked  up 
all  night  on  the  Golden  Age  Factory  Fire  inquiry 
this  mornin’  returned  a verdict  of  willful  murther 
ag’in’  you  as  the  most  prominent  of  the  company 
— though  you  only  own  twenty-five  dollars’  worth 
of  shares  that  you  took  over  three  weeks  ago  in 
lieu  of  a bad  debt.  They  found  it  was  your 
bounden  duty  to  have  widened  the  staircase  three 
feet,  put  on  forty  iron  doors  openin’  out,  and  pro- 
vide five  new  fire  escapes.” 

Brian’s  head,  when  he  heard  this,  was  like  a 
hedge-hog.  “Will  they  hang  me  for  it?”  he 
wailed. 

“There !”  says  the  lawyer.  “Thank  Heaven  we 
have  the  foreway  of  them ! By  great  good  luck 
two  charges  of  manslaughter  on  behalf  of  the 
last  two  childer  your  chauffeur  killed  were  pre- 
ferred ag’in’  you  last  night;  so  we  have  the  right 
to  object  to  the  murther  trial  till  you  have  first 
sailed  your  sentinces  for  the  manslaughter.  By 
that  time  the  murther  men’ll  be  so  tired  waitin’ 
that  they’ll  only  be  too  glad  to  take  a plea  of 


i68 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


guilty  of  murther  in  the  fourth  degree  and  let  you 
off  on  a ten-year  sentince.” 

“Thanks  be  to  Heaven!’’  says  Brian  from  the 
soles  of  his  socks. 

“And  now,”  says  the  lawyer,  “if  you  give  me 
your  blank  check  duly  signed,  I’ll  run  round  to  see 
some  of  the  Senators,  and  insense  them  into  the 
ruination  the  Antitrust  Bill  will  work  the  country 
if  it  isn’t  kilt  quickly.  Here’s  your  doctor  to 
see  you,  anyhow.” 

And  poor  Brian  hadn’t  breath  enough  left  to 
bid  the  lawyer  good  mornin’,  go  to  the  divil,  or 
any  other  usual  civility,  as  he  left. 

“Doctor,  Doctor,”  says  Brian,  says  he,  when 
his  speeches  returned  to  him,  “I’m  glad  you’ve 
come!  If  you  banish  this  pain  that’s  worse  ten 
thousand  times  than  Purgatory  out  of  my  big  toe, 
ye  can  name  any  fee  your  conscience’ll  counte- 
nance, not  exceedin’  your  own  weight  in  goold.” 

The  doctor  he  shook  his  head.  “Mr.  Muni- 
bagges,”  says  he,  “if  I was  blissed  with  the  gift, 
never  yet  known  to  mortal  man,  of  curin’  the  gout, 
even  the  Fat  Man’s  weight  in  goold  at  the  dime 
museum  wouldn’t  give  me  one-tenth  as  much  de- 
light as  would  the  relievin’  a poor  tortured  hu- 
man of  the  agonies  you,  poor  divil,  have  suffered 
for  fifteen  years  gone,  and,  unfortunately,  must 
suffer  for  the  remainder  of  your  natural  life.” 


FIVE  MINUTES  A MILLIONAIRE  169 

Brian,  at  this  news  let  a screech  out  o’  him. 
And  “Wurra,  wurra,  wurra !”  says  he,  wringin’ 
his  hands.  “Can  nothin’  be  done  for  me  at  all, 
at  all?” 

“Oh,  yes,  yes,”  says  the  doctor,  says  he,  very 
reassurin’,  “a  great  deal  can  be  done,  I’m  de- 
lighted to  say,  to  relieve  your  other  complaints.” 

Poor  Brian  put  out  of  him  a groan  that  would 
tear  a hole  through  a hardwood  door.  “What, 
in  the  name  of  Heaven,  do  you  mane?”  says  he. 

“I  mane,”  says  the  doctor,  says  he,  “that  ex- 
ceptin’ your  liver,  which  is  of  course  past  curin’, 
and  your  disaised  heart,  which  I daren’t  tinker 
with  any  more,  on  my  peril  and  yours,  I feel  sar- 
tain  that  after  your  appendix  is  removed,  if  you 
survive  the  operation,  which  is  quite  possible, 
you’re  likely  to  live  the  remainder  of  your  life;  on 
condition,  however,  that  you  walk  ten  miles  on  the 
empty  stomach  every  mornin’,  take  eleven  goose- 
berries for  breakfast,  go  without  lunch,  and  eat  no 
dinner,  and  drink  seven  quarts  of  whey  between 
meals,  and  three-quarters  of  a bottle  of  codliver 
oil  for  a night-cap,  and  never  look  at  tobacco 
more.  Then,”  says  he,  “then,  presumin’  your 
heart  holds  out,  and  your  liver  acts  like  a gen- 
tleman, you’ll  be  the  soundest  and  healthiest  mil- 
lioneer  outside  a sanatorium. — A thousand  dol- 
lars,” says  the  doctor,  flypin’  his  flipper  for  his 


170 


TOP  O'  THE  MORNIN’ 


daily  fee. — “And  good  mornin’,”  says  he  when 
he  got  it,  “and  I hope  you’ll  have  a glad  an’  joy- 
some  day.” 

Poor  Brian  was  puttin’  out  of  him  a moan  that 
would  melt  the  heart  of  a rock,  when  his  wife, 
Kitty,  so  plastered  with  jew’lry  that  he  couldn’t 
see  more  than  her  nose  at  one  time,  tore  in,  in  a 
rantin’  rage,  and  went  whirlin’  round  the  room 
like  a Red  Indian. 

“Kitty,  Kitty,  asthore,”  says  Brian,  says  he, 
“what’s  come  over  ye  at  all,  at  all?” 

“I  have  put  my  case,”  says  she,  “in  the  hands 
of  a lawyer.” 

“What  case,  Kitty,  achreef”  says  he,  in  mighty 
wonderment. 

“For  separation  and  seven  hundred  thousand 
alimony,”  says  she.  “It  isn’t  once,  and  it  isn’t 
fifty  times  alone,”  says  she,  “ye  bald  headed  oul’ 
desaiver,  that  I’ve  warned  you  to  stop  your  gal- 
livantin’ with  chorus  girls ! But  it  was  the  divil 
a morsel  o’  use,”  says  she.  “The  ould  fool  is  ever 
an’  always  the  worst  fool.” 

“Kitty!  Kitty!  Kitty!”  says  Brian,  says  he.  “Is 
it  take  laive  of  your  senses  ye  have  done?  What 
are  ye  ravin  about  chorus  girls?” 

“I’ll  let  ye  know  that  in  the  divorce  coort,”  says 
she.  “I  have  every  particular  of  your  goin’s  on — 
day  and  date,  chapture  and  verse  for  each,  lunches 


FIVE  MINUTES  A MILLIONAIRE  171 

and  dinners,  suppers  and  automobiles,  with  the 
chorus  hussies,  and  a yard  high  of  love  letters 
smellin’  like  an  explosion  in  a scent  factory.  The 
papers,”  says  she,  “ ’ll  make  fine  readin’  for  the 
town  some  mornin1  soon.  One’d  think,”  says  she, 
“that  an  ould  bald  ruin  like  you,  with  one  foot  in 
the  grave  and  the  other  only  half  out  of  it, 
would  be  makin’  your  soul,  instead  of  such  scanda- 
lous goin’s  on.  ’Tis  little  wonder,”  says  she,  “that 
the  divil’s  torturin’  the  soul  out  o’  you  with  the 
gout  here, — a very  small  earnest  of  the  prepara- 
tion he’s  makin’  for  you  hereafter.” 

“Kitty,  Kitty  o’  me  heart,”  Brian  pleaded  with 
her,  “what’s  come  over  ye,  anyhow — for  to  even 
mention  such  goin’s  ori  to  your  own  husband  who’s 
been  faithful  as  the  floodtide  to  you,  for  forty 
years?” 

But  Kitty,  in  a blaze  o’  wrath,  had  swept  out 
o’  the  room,  with  the  salute  that  she’d  never  spend 
another  night  under  his  roof.  And  Brian,  in  the 
pain  that  took  hold  of  his  heart  for  thinkin’  what 
had  come  over  Kitty,  who’d  been  the  light  oFhis 
life,  near  a’most  forgot  his  gout  altogether,  for 
five  minutes. 

“Pity  look  down  on  me !”  says  he.  “Isn’t  it  the 
sad  case  I am  entirely?” 

“There’s  nothing  so  bad,  Sir,”  says  the  head 
flunky,  says  he,  bowin’  and  tryin’  to  comfort  him, 


172 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN' 


“but  it  might  be  a hundred  times  worse. — Here’s 
a tilligram,”  says  he,  “from  your  son,  Tom,  to  say 
he’s  married  a showgirl.” 

“Me  son  Tom?”  Brian  shouts. 

“Your  son  Tom,  sure  enough,”  says  the  flunky. 
“He’s  wired  from  Philadelphy,  askin’  your  blis- 
sin’.” 

“And  there’s  a policeman  just  come  to  the 
door,”  says  another  flunky,  “to  report  that  your 
daughter’s  run  away  with  the  new  chauffeur.” 

Faith,  the  gout,  bad  as  it  was,  couldn’t  keep  him 
from  jumpin’  on  his  feet,  and  chasin’  his  tail  like 
a crazy  one  round  and  round  the  room,  makin’  a 
scatteration  on  everything  and  everybody  come  in 
his  way,  tryin’  to  tear  the  hair  that  should  be  on 
his  head,  but  wasn’t,  and  cryin’  out,  “Kitty,  me 
heart,  wantin’  alimony  to  laive  me ! Tom  gone 
off  with  a showgirl ! And  Peggy  run  away  with 
a hoodlum ! Ochone,  ochone  for  the  happy  days, 
forever  gone,  when  we  were  blissed  with  pov- 
erty !” 

A ruction  that  rose  in  Fif’  Avnoo  that 
instant  drew  his  attention,  and,  dashin’  to  the 
window  to  find  the  cause,  lo  and  behold  ye,  what 
did  he  witness,  but  his  old  self,  Brian  O’Gaffeney, 
in  his  old  suit  of  laborin’  clothes,  mounted  on  the 
tail  end  of  a wagon  in  front  of  his  mansion,  in  the 
middle  of  a mob  of  socialists  and  arnychists,  de- 


FIVE  MINUTES  A MILLIONAIRE  173 

nouncin’  all  millioneers,  and  William  L.  Muni- 
bagges  first  and  foremost  among  them,  and  en- 
couragin’ the  riotous  mob  to  smash  into  his  house, 
and  divide  the  wealth  they’d  get  there? 

A roar  went  up  that  should  rattle  the  stars,  from 
that  riotous  mob  the  minute  they  beheld  him  at 
the  window.  But,  for  fear  Brian  O’Gaffeney 
would  get  away,  he  raised  his  voice  above  the 
roar  and  yelled,  “A  hundred  thousand  dollars  to 
the  arnychist  who  holds  that  red  headed  chap  on 
the  tail  end  of  the  wagon  till  I get  into  him;  for 
he’s  me  by  rights,  and  I am  not  meself  at  all!” 

But  that  instant,  seem’  an  arnychist,  who  looked 
as  if  he  washed  his  face  every  Christmas,  raisin’ 
a bomb  to  hurl  at  him,  he  screeched  like  a pooka, 
and  turned  tail  to  run.  He  was  too  late,  though; 
for  the  bomb  hit  him  a polthogue  behind,  that 
made  him  bawl  like  a bull  and  bounce  fifteen  yards 
into  the  air. 

And  when  he  flopped  down,  feelin’  in  his  soul 
that  he  was  surely  a dead  man,  it  dumbfoundhered 
him  to  hear  a voice  above  him  swearin’,  “Bad  luck 
to  ye,  ye  spalpeen ! Sleepin’  on  the  Park  grass 
ag’in’ — and  yellin’  like  a rhinoceros ! By  me  faith, 
you’ll  foot  it  to  the  coort  this  time !” 

And  Brian,  sittin’  up  with  a jerk  and  findin’ 
himself  in  his  own  shape  sittin’  on  the  Fairy 
Knowe  with  Park  Policeman  McGurk  ragin’  above 


174 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


him  and  raisin’  his  foot  to  give  him  another  kick  in 
the  same  place,  went  near  a’most  crazy  with  joy! 
And  McGurk  thought  it  was  defyin’  himself  and 
the  law  he  was  when  Brian  from  the  bottom  of 
his  heart  said,  “Any  sintince  ye  get  me,  short  o’ 
hangin’,  ’ll  be  joy  etarnal.  Imprisonment  for 
life,”  says  he,  “ ’ll  be  like  a holiday  at  Coney!” 

He  could  only  find  fifty  cents  in  his  pocket; 
but  he  mollified  McGurk  with  that.  “And,”  says 
he,  “I  wish  to  Heaven  it  was  fifty  thousand! 
And  in  troth,”  says  he,  “if  you’d  have  come  on 
the  scene  five  minutes  sooner,  I could  ’a’  given 
you  fifty  thousand  as  aisy  as  kiss  me  hand.” 

When  Brian,  as  happy  as  a hare  in  harvest, 
reached  home,  he  found  ready  for  him  a meal  that 
would  water  the  mouth  of  a dead  man;  for  the 
bate  of  Kitty  as  a cook  wasn’t  to  be  met  with  in 
many  a mile.  And  Brian  saited  Kitty  to  one  side 
of  him  at  the  table,  and  Peggy  to  the  other,  and 
his  brave  son  Tom  forninst  him,  and  to  the  fam- 
ily’s flabbergastin’  he  sayed  a grace  that  was  like 
a high  mass.  And  “Kitty,”  says  he,  as  they  ate 
dinner,  “go  down  town  to-morrow  mornin’  and 
buy  yourself  a pair  of  the  best  and  dearest  dresses 
that  money  can  purchase;  for,  a faithful  wife 
you’ve  been  to  me ; and  such  rare  quality  should  be 
rewarded.  You’d  better  take  Peggy  with  you,” 
says  he,  “and  buy  her  a weddin’  dress.  Let  it  be 


FIVE  MINUTES  A MILLIONAIRE  175 

a gorgus  one,”  says  he,  “that’ll  do  credit  to  the 
daicent  boy  in  her  own  sp’ere  of  life  who  she’s 
going  to  marry.  Mike  Corrigan  is  a credit  to  all 
truckmen,”  says  he. 

And  the  eyes  of  both  women  were  as  big  as 
saucers. 

“And  Tom,”  says  Brian,  says  he,  across  the 
table  to  his  son,  “you  ought  to  hire  a rig  at  Mar- 
tin O’Leary’s  livery  and  give  that  sweet  little 
O’Keefe  girl  an  evenin’  outin’  that’ll  do  her  heart 
good.  I’m  thinkin’,  Tom,  if  you  want  a good  wife, 
you  might  aisy  go  farther  and  fare  worse  than 
Elly  O’Keefe.  Her  people’s  well  come  home,” 
says  he.  “A  daicenter  man  than  her  grandfather 
never  entered  the  fair  o’  Mullingar.” 

If  all  this  surprised  them,  it  was  dumbfoun- 
dered  out  an’  out  his  wife  was  when  he  squeezed 
her  hand  underneath  the  table  and  whispered  to 
her,  “Kitty  dear,  promise  you’ll  never  laive  me, 
nor  look  for  alimony.  And  for  my  part,”  says  he, 
“I’ll  swear  never  to  go  within  acres  of  any  show 
where  they  keep  chorus  girls.” 

But  he  went  past  their  comprehension  alto- 
gether when,  at  the  dinner’s  close,  he  prayed,  by 
way  of  grace,  “Thanks  be  to  God  for  makin’  us 
all  poor,  and  happy,  and  hardworkin’  people.” 

Yet  from  the  bottom  0’  their  hearts,  they  all 
said,  “Amen I” 


X 


MRS.  CARNEY’S  SEALSKIN 

MRS.  CARNEY  was  just  setting  the  black 
porringer  on  the  fire,  to  prepare  a bowl 
of  tea  for  Rody,  who  was  busy  putting 
in  his  first  ’taties  in  the  Nor’-east  Park — just  a 
call  above  the  house.  Rody  always  relished  for 
his  breakfast  a good  bowl  of  strong  tea,  black 
as  murder,  and  as  strong  as  the  shafts  of  a cart; 
he  acknowledged  that  such  a drop  always  warmed 
the  cockles  of  his  heart  in  the  morning.  She  had 
three  lovely  fresh-laid  eggs  sitting  by  the  fireside, 
waiting  to  be  popped  into  the  boiling  kettle  the 
moment  Rody  would  come  in;  and  on  the  white 
table  she  had  two  plates  piled  high  one  with  hard 
bread,  well  covered  with  yellow  butter;  and  the 
other  with  steaming  hot  scones,  just  fresh  from 
the  fire,  the  melting  butter  running  over  them, 
and  soaking  through  them.  But  the  black  por- 
ringer, as  I said,  was  just  going  down  upon  the 
coals  when  the  door  was  darkened  by  none  other 
but  Barney  Brian;  and  Barney,  of  the  light  purse, 
and  lighter  heart,  stepped  in  with  “God  save  ye, 

176 


MRS.  CARNEY’S  SEALSKIN  177 

Mrs.  Carney,  and  prosper  the  work.  An’  isn’t 
this  the  glorious  mornin’  we’re  havin’,  anyhow — 
thanks  be  to  God  for  it?” 

“Thank  God,  an’  you,  Barney  Brian,  for  His 
good  works  an’  your  good  wishes.  It’s  welcome 
ye  are,  Barney;  draw  up  and  have  a sait  by  the 
fire,  an’  let  me  hear  what’s  the  news  with  ye  this 
mornin’.” 

At  a glance  the  roguish  eye  of  Barney  took  in 
all  the  good  things  that  were  to  the  fore,  includ- 
ing the  hot  buttered  scones,  the  scent  of  which 
had  arrested  his  steps  on  the  road,  and  drawn 
them  over  Mrs.  Carney’s  threshold.  He  thanked 
Mrs.  Carney,  and  took  the  seat  which  she  had 
drawn  up  and  politely  wiped  with  her  apron  for 
him — wiped,  although,  like  the  other  articles  of 
kitchen  furniture,  it  was  scoured  so  white  and 
vclean  that,  as  Barney  remarked,  “The  Queen  o’ 
Spain  might  take  her  tay  off  it.” 

“The  sorra  much  news  is  thravelin’,  ma’am,” 
said  Barney — “barrin’,  of  course,  about  the  cornin’ 
home  of  Yankee  M’Groary,  of  Dhrimullin  Upper, 
which  to  be  sure  you  have  heard  of?” 

“I  didn’t  hear  of  it,”  said  Mrs.  Carney;  “but 
in  throth  myself  knew  it;  and  I said  to  Rody  yes- 
terday evening,  when  he  came  in  for  his  stira- 
bout, that  I had  seen  Sally  M’Groary’s  wee  John- 
nie going  past  in  a hurry,  and  coming  back  again  in. 


178  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

a bigger  hurry  still  half  an  hour  after  (and  he  was 
by  an’  out  of  sight  afore  I had  time  to  bless 
myself,  let  alone  stop  him  an’  question  him),  with 
something  the  size  of  a bottle  of  whisky  rolled 
up  in  a handkerchief  under  his  arm;  an’  I said  to 
Rody  either  wee  Johnnie’s  uncle  Dan  had  come 
home,  or  else  there  was  someone  dead  with  them, 
above  in  Dhrimullin.” 

“Ma’am,”  said  Barney,  “you  always  were  a 
close  observer.”  With  the  tail  of  one  eye  Bar- 
ney took  in  the  buttered  piles  which,  upon  the 
table,  were  sending  forth  grateful  smell,  while 
his  other  eye  wandered  from  the  three  fresh  eggs 
upon  the  table  to  the  black  porringer  bubbling 
and  steaming  upon  the  fire.  “And,”  said  Bar- 
ney, then,  “wasn’t  it  just  downright  kind  and 
thoughtful  of  your  daughter  Mary?” 

“What  do  you  mean?”  said  Mrs.  Carney,  sud- 
denly ceasing  from  fixing  the  fire,  and  looking  up 
into  Barney’s  face. 

“I  mean,”  says  Barney,  says  he,  “wasn’t  it 
downright  kind  and  thoughtful  of  her  to  send 
you  such  a lovely  present?” 

“Make  me  sensible,  Barney,”  says  Mrs.  Car- 
ney, eagerly  straightening  herself  up. 

“Then,”  said  Barney,  “is  it  that  you  haven’t 
heard  the  good  news?” 


MRS.  CARNEY’S  SEALSKIN  179 

“The  sorra  word  of  news,  good,  bad,  or  in- 
different, has  reached  me,”  said  Mrs.  Carney. 

“Well,  well,  well,”  said  Barney,  “I’m  sur- 
prised! But  it’s  pleased  and  proud  I am,  at  the 
same  time,  to  know  that  it’s  myself  is  the  bearer 
of  the  good  tidings.  Your  daughter,  Mary,  in 
Philadelphy,  has  sent  you  home,  with  Yankee 
M’Groary,  the  loveliest  sealskin  jacket  that  ever 
the  gaze  of  mortial  man  rested  upon  J” 

Mrs.  Carney  turned  up  her  eyes  in  ecstasy,  and 
she  clasped  her  hands,  and  said:  “Glory  be,  Bar- 
ney,” said  she.  And  then,  “Is  it  the  truth  you’re 
tellin’  me?” 

“Arrah,”  said  Barney,  “sure  I thought  the  worl’ 
knew  it!  There  wasn’t  a man,  woman,  or  child, 
about  Dhrimullin  Upper — or  the  next  land  to  it 
— that  didn’t  keep  Yankee  M’Groary  all  yester- 
day evening  as  busy  as  a nailor,  opening  and  clos- 
ing his  Yankee  trunk,  and  exhibiting  to  them  the 
beautiful  sealskin  jacket  that  your  daughter  Mary 
sent  you.” 

“God’s  blessin’  be  about  her,  ever,”  said  Mrs. 
Carney,  rising  to  her  feet;  “but  she  was  always 
the  good,  kind  girl,  and  the  kindly  daughter  to 
me.  A sealskin  jacket!  Why,  Barney,”  said  she, 
“there’s  no  reason,  now,  why  I shouldn’t  be  the 
proudest  woman  in  Killymard.  Glory  be  to  the 
Man  above!” 


i8o 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


“Ma’am,”  said  Barney,  “when  ye  get  yon  jacket 
on  ye,  ye’ll  be  too  proud  to  say  ‘pratie,’  an’  I doubt 
if  you’ll  know  your  neighbors  when  ye  meet 
them.” 

For  a time  Mrs.  Carney  was  lost  in  exaltation 
of  spirit.  She  alternately  clasped  her  hands  and 
said,  “Tchk!  Tchk!”  clucking  her  tongue  in  rap- 
turous amazement. 

“Barney  Brian,”  she  said  then,  generously, 
“that’s  not  me.  When  I’m  in  that  jacket,  I’ll 
know  the  poorest  of  yous,  an’  soul  or  sinner  of  ye 
will  never  pass  me  by,  in  it,  and,  after  my  back’s 
turned,  be  able  to  say,  ‘Cock  her  up  now!  she 
forgets  that  she  ever  wore  a plain  plaid  shawl!’  ” 

“Ma’am,  I wouldn’t  doubt  your  condescen- 
sion,” Barney  admiringly  acceded. 

“That,”  said  Mrs.  Carney,  “will  be  me  towards 
every  soul,  and  sinner  of  ye — barrin’,”  she  said, 
on  second  thought,  “when  I pass  Peggy  Kea- 
veney.” 

“Which,”  said  Barney,  “is  not  to  be  wondered 
at,  at  all,  at  all.” 

“I  may  be  a bit  lofty  with  her,  I’ll  not  deny,  for 
she  has  never  got  over  the  airs  she  took  with 
that  beaded  bonnet  and  flounced  skirt  her  son 
John  fetched  her,  five  years  ago,  from  Boston.” 

“In  troth,  ma’am,”  said  Barney,  “it’ll  be 


MRS.  CARNEY’S  SEALSKIN  181 


Peggy’s  desarts.  It’ll  do  her  a kitchen-garden  of 
good,  too,  for  it’ll  fetch  her  to  her  senses.” 

“A  sealskin  jacket!”  Mrs.  Carney,  again  ec- 
statically exclaimed,  “But  Barney,  a char  a ” she 
sympathetically  interrupted  herself,  “sure  it’s 
badly  off  you  must  be  for  a bit  of  breakfast,  now 
so  far  on  in  the  mornin’  as  it  is?” 

“Oh,  not  at  all,  ma’am,  not  at  all,  ma’am,”  said 
Barney,  in  the  polite  tones  of  one  who  does  not 
expect  to  be  believed. 

“And  a bite  of  breakfast  you  must  have, 
crathur,”  Mrs.  Carney  said,  plunging  the  eggs 
into  the  boiling  kettle,  and  drawing  the  tea,  and 
setting  down  the  mildly-objecting  and  profusely 
apologetic  Barney  to  the  inviting  big  breakfast  she 
had  prepared  for  her  hard-working  husband. 

As  Barney  made  the  eggs  and  tea  disappear, 
^nd  made  vast  inroads  on  the  buttered  piles  be- 
fore him,  Mrs.  Carney  stood  over  him,  rattling 
away  at  the  rate  of  a wedding  and  enthusing  over 
the  prospect  of  the  new  sealskin  jacket.  Barney, 
approving  and  replying  by  inclinations  of  the  head, 
when  the  mouth  was  full,  or  by  monosyllables  be- 
tween bites.  And  when  Barney  had  almost,  but 
not  quite,  finished,  the  door  darkened  again,  and 
in  walked  no  other  than  her  hungry  husband, 
Rody,  with  a shade  of  protest  on  his  brow.  When 
he  had  nodded  welcome  to  Barney,  he  remon- 


182 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


strated  with  Mollie  for  not  calling  him  in  to  his 
breakfast  before  this,  “and  the  stomach  of  me 
cryin’  piteous,”  said  he,  “for  the  past  half  hour.” 

In  response  Mollie  sought  to  overwhelm  him 
with  the  great  news  of  the  sealskin  jacket;  but  in 
Rody’s  hungry  condition  he  was  not  to  be  over- 
whelmed. 

“If  you  knew  it,  Mollie,”  said  he,  “a  good, 
long,  strong  drink  of  tay  and  a couple  or  three 
eggs  manes  a deal  more  to  me  this  minute  than 
a web  of  sealskin  that  would  reach  from  the 
morra  mornin’  to  Jee-cago.” 

“Which,”  said  Mollie,  tartly,  and  with  an  air 
of  superior  knowledge,  “shows  the  ignorance  of 
the  man,  who  imagines  that  sealskin  goes  by  the 
web.” 

And  Barney,  whose  mouth  was  too  full  to  reply, 
shook  his  head  in  mingled  pity  and  disgust  over 
the  sublime  ignorance  of  the  person,  Rody. 

Said  Rody:  “Whether  sealskyi  goes  by  the 
web  or  by  the  creelful  matters  little  to  a raven- 
ious  man,  who  knows  that  tay  goes  by  the  bowlful, 
but  cannot  get  a drop.” 

“Barney  Brian,”  said  Mollie,  in  dire  despair, 
“did  ye  ever  in  all  your  existence  know  anything 
to  equal  that  man’s  ignorance?” 

Barney,  having  now  finished,  and  left  the  stacks 
before  him  very  small  indeed,  was  wiping  his 


MRS.  CARNEY’S  SEALSKIN  183 

mouth  with  an  air  of  keen  satisfaction,  as  he  re- 
plied decisively,  “Never.  That  man’s  past  prayin’ 
for,  Mrs.  Carney.” 

Mrs.  Carney  then  explained  to  her  earthy  hus- 
band that,  as  she  gave  the  eggs  to  this  poor  boy, 
who  was  badly  in  need  of  his  breakfast  in  the 
morning,  there  were  none  left  for  him,  but  that 
she  would  pour  a second  supply  of  boiling  water 
on  the  tea  leaves,  and  draw  him  a good  rousing 
bowl  of  tea,  “for,”  she  said,  “it’s  a good  texture 
of  tay,  and  takes  a splendid  grip  of  the  second 
water.” 

Rody  laid  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  gave  a 
deep  groan. 

“And  you’ll  maybe  find  as  much  hard  bread  and 
soda  scones  there  as  will  help  you  pass  the  time  till 
the  next  male-time  comes,  when  I’ll  have  a good 
dinner  for  you.” 

Rody,  who  was  truly  ravenous  with  hunger, 
raised  stormy  protest  at  this. 

Mollie  threw  up  her  hands  in  despair,  and 
appealed  to  Barney. 

Barney,  who  was  now  luxuriously  laid  back  in 
his  chair,  smacking  his  lips  and  enjoying  the  su- 
preme comfort  of  a hearty  breakfast,  safely 
stowed  away,  turned  reproachful  eyes  upon  Rody, 
and  shook  his  head. 

“Rody,”  he  said,  with  gentle  rebuke,  “I  must 


184  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN* 

say  that  you  are  an  onthankful,  ongrateful  man. 
God  has  blessed  you  with  the  offer  of  a breakfast 
that  would  make  many  a poor  homeless  craiture 
happy  this  morning  if  they  had  it. — I must  say,” 
he  said,  and  he  turned  his  look  towards  Mollie, 
“that  you  are  an  onappeasable  man.” 

Then  he  paused  to  suck  his  teeth  and  smack  his 
lips  again,  for  the  flavor  of  Mollie’s  duck  eggs, 
which  still  lingered  on  his  palate,  was  undoubtedly 
very  fine.  His  rebuke  certainly  seemed  to  tell 
upon  Rody,  so  he  followed  it  up. 

“Rody,”  he  said,  imperfectly  recollecting  some 
of  Father  Dan’s  texts,  “Cursed  is  the  man  who 
takes  heed  what  he  shall  eat  or  what  he  shall 
drink,  or  whether  he  has  duck  eggs  for  his  break- 
fast. Better  for  him  that  he  had  a millstone  round 
his  neck  and  sunk  to  the  bottom  of  the  loch  with- 
out. Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field;  they  toil  not, 
neither  do  they  spin.” 

The  force  of  which  argument  must  have  com- 
pletely crushed  the  recalcitrant  Rody;  for  he 
thereupon  drew  his  chair  to  the  table  and  accepted 
with  satisfaction  the  second-water  tea  which  Mol- 
lie laid  down  to  him.  He  only  remarked,  in  a 
calm  voice. 

“Barney  Brian,  I think  your  rightful  occupation 
should  have  been  a lily  o’  the  field.” 

Barney,  as  he  arose  and  took  his  hat,  shook  his 


MRS.  CARNEY’S  SEALSKIN  185 

head  again  over  this  perverse  man.  He  thanked 
Mollie  profusely  and  heartily  wished  her  good 
health  and  long  life  to  wear  and  enjoy  her  beau- 
tiful sealskin,  and  received  equally  profuse  thanks 
and  good  wishes  in  return.  And  before  finally 
disappearing  he  paused  in  the  door  to  Took  back 
upon  the  onthankful  man  who  ate  at  the  table, 
and  to  observe : 

“Rody  Carney,  you  shouldn’t  let  the  flesh  pots 
of  Aigypt  get  such  a strong  grip  upon  your  soul.” 

Mollie  was  already  busy  washing  her  face  and 
dressing  her  hair,  and  donning  her  best  linsey- 
woolsey  skirt  and  body,  in  hot  preparation  for  a 
journey  to  Dhrimullin  Upper. 

“Rody,”  she  said,  speaking  with  some  hairpins 
in  her  mouth,  “you  must  fetch  out  that  little  bran-» 
net  calf  to  the  first  fair  of  Donegal.  That  will  be 
Friday  next  come  ei’  days.” 

“For  why,  ma’am?”  he  said,  speaking  as  best 
he  could,  for  a large  mouthful  which  he  was  en- 
deavoring to  masticate. 

“Because,”  she  said,  “you  must  buy  some  little 
dacent  Sunday  clothes  for  yourself  and  the  chil- 
dhre;  when  I get  on  this  sealskin  jacket  I’ll  be 
ashamed  of  yous  unless  yous  are  dacently 
dressed.” 

“Ye  will,  will  ye?  Thank  ye,  ma’am,”  said 
Rody.  “Thin,  if  your  sealskin’s  going  to  make  you 


i86 


TOP  O’  TPIE  MORNIN’ 


ashamed  of  your  own  man  and  your  own  childre, 
I would  advise  ye  that  the  best  place  to  wear  it 
is,  not  on  your  own  back,  but  at  the  bottom  of  the 
clothes  chist.” 

Said  Mrs.  Carney,  ignoring  the  remark,  all 
confident  of  her  own  dictatorial  powers : 

“You’ll  get  the  makin’s  of  a pair  of  trousers 
and  a waistcoat,  for  yourself,  of  good  broadcloth. 
I’ll  have  your  Sunday  coat  dyed  and  it’ll  be  bet- 
ter than  new.  And  ye’ll  buy  the  makin’s  of  two 
good  little  suits  for  Micky  and  Johnny,  and 
there’ll  be  as  much  over  as  will  buy  a dacent 
skirt  for  me.  The  calf  will  fetch  you  three  poun’ 
ten,  or  four  poun’.” 

“An’,”  said  Rody,  “if  we’re  goin’  to  put  the 
little  calf  on  our  backs  for  to  make  us  look  grand, 
what’s  goin’  to  pay  the  rent  for  us  at  Hallow-day, 
I’d  like  to  know?” 

Mrs.  Carney  said: 

“God’ll  pay  the  rent  for  us,  Rody  Carney.” 

“I  don’t  deny,”  said  Rody,  “that  He’ll  appre- 
ciate the  compliment;  but  still  I have  an  idea  that 
if  we  can  struggle  to  raise  the  rent  ourselves,  we’ll 
have  the  satisfaction  of  being  under  no  favors.” 
“Rody  Carney,”  Mollie  said,  “you’re  a par- 
varse  man.” 

“Troth,  and  if  I am,”  said  Rody,  “I  could  reach 
a rod  this  minute  to  them  that  smit  me.” 


MRS.  CARNEY’S  SEALSKIN  187 

But  Mollie,  enjoying  the  prospect  of  her  seal- 
skin, for  once  in  her  life  could  easily  afford  to  let 
him  have  the  last  word. 

“Now,”  she  said,  when  she  was  dressed  and 
decked  to  her  heart’s  content,  “I’m  off  to  Dhri- 
mullin  Upper,  and  I’ll  be  back  in  time  to  get  you 
a pick  of  dinner.” 

“Thank  you,”  said  Rody  obsequiously. 

“And,  please  God,  I’ll  have  the  sealskin  home 
with  me  again  afore  ye  come  back  from  the  tatie 
field.- — Rody,  you’ll  give  the  calf  a nice,  good, 
warm,  white  drink,  for  we  must  get  it  into  fine 
condition  again’  Donegal  fair  day.” 

Then  she  was  off. 

Rody  heaved  a sigh  as  he  finished  his  scanty 
breakfast,  and  he  said  to  himself,  “God  help  us! 
To  make  room  for  that  sealskin  we  must  empty 
our  house  out,  and  part  with  all  our  belongin’s. 
And  God  help  you  for  a foolish  woman,  Mollie 
Carney!”  He  shook  his  head  in  the  direction  of 
the  door  through  which  she  had  disappeared. 
Then,  in  meek  obedience,  he  prepared  the  warm, 
white  drink  for  the  calf,  which  himself  and  the 
children  would  be  compelled  to  put  on  their  backs 
to  match  Mollie’s  sealskin,  and  he  afterwards 
went  forth  to  his  spade  and  his  meditation  in  the 
nor’-east  park. 

Mollie  struck  a bee-line  over  Esker  Hill  for 


i88 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


Dhrimullin  Upper.  But,  for  all  her  haste,  she 
couldn’t  avoid  the  temptation  of  dropping  in  to 
see  several  cronies  on  the  way — cronies  who,  be- 
fore ever  she  informed  them  of  the  good  news, 
knew  that  there  was  something  great  in  the  wind, 
since  Mollie  Carney  was  carrying  her  head  so  high 
in  the  morning.  Mollis  overwhelmed  them  with 
the  startling  intelligence  of  the  wonderful  seal- 
skin which  her  daughter  Mary  had  sent  home  to 
her  from  Philadelphy  with  Yankee  M’Groary. 
Their  eyes  dilated,  and  their  mouths  watered; 
but,  for  all,  they  heartily  wished  her  health  and 
joy  to  wear  it.  And  each  of  them  remarked, 
“Well,  Mollie  Carney,  you’ll  be  too  proud  to 
know  any  of  us  now  if  you  met  us  in  the  stira- 
bout pot.” 

“Is  it  me  proud?”  Mollie  would  say,  “I’ll  be 
as  plain  as  if  I was  still  only  one  of  yourselves.” 

“Musha  more  power  to  ye,  an’  God  bless  ye, 
Mollie  Carney,”  they  would  reply. 

It  was  from  Peggy  Keaveney  only — she  of  the 
beaded  bonnet  and  flounced  skirt,  from  Boston — 
that,  as  Mrs.  Carney  expected,  and,  indeed, 
wished,  she  got  no  sympathy. 

“Do  you  know,  Mrs.  Carney,”  Peggy  said  con- 
fidentially, as  soon  as  she  had  recovered  from  the 
shock  which  the  intelligence  gave  her,  “I  thought 
your  daughter  Mary  was  a sensible  girl,  and 


MRS.  CARNEY’S  SEALSKIN  189 

might  have  sent  you  a sensible  present.  She 
might  have  known  very  well  that  you,  at  your 
age 

“I  beg  your  pardon,  ma’am!  I beg  your  par- 
don, Peggy!”  snapped  Mrs.  Carney. 

“Well,”  replied  Peggy  apologetically,  “you 
know  very  well,  Mrs.  Carney,  that  there’s  neither 
of  us  as  young  as  we  used  to  be. — That  at  your 
age,  I was  saying,  you  are  too  sensible  and  too 
right-minded  a woman  to  go  gallivantin’  in  a seal- 
skin.” 

“Peggy,”  said  Mrs.  Carney,  haughtily,  “I  can- 
not see  why  a sealskin  wouldn’t  look  as  becoming 
on  me  as  it  would  on  the  Lord  Lieutenant’s  wife.” 

“Well,  ye  know,”  Peggy  insinuated,  “consider 
you  walking  to  the  chapel  in  your  sealskin  and 
your  dacent  man,  Rody,  walking  beside  you  in 
patched  corduroys.  It’s  as  a friend  I speak  to  ye, 
Mollie  Carney,  and  it’s  as  a friend  that  I wouldn’t 
wish  to  see  the  parish  pass  onbecoming  remarks 
on  ye.” 

“Peggy,”  Mollie  triumphantly  replied,  “make 
your  mind  aisy;  Rody  is  going  to  the  town  to- 
morrow mornin’  to  leave  his  measure  for  a pair 
of  broadcloth  trousers,  and  a waistcoat  to  match, 
and  the  childre  is  both  gettin’  new  shoots,  from 
the  crown  of  their  heads  down.” 

“Oh,  indeed!”  said  Peggy  Keaveney. — “Be 


190 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


sides,”  Peggy  continued,  after  a pause,  “of  course 
you  have  heard  that  sealskin  jackets  has  got  as 
common  as  cabbages  in  America,  and  as  cheap; 
an’  no  lady  of  means  and  respectability  durst  be 
seen  in  one!” 

! Mrs.  Carney’s  head  went  up.  “Peggy  Kea- 
veney,”  she  said,  “if  that’s  all  that’s  troublin’  your 
conscience,  don’t  let  it  worry  you  any  more.  Take 
my  word  for  it,  no  one  is  goin’  to  force  a sealskin 
on  you.” 

“So  well  they  mightn’t,  Mrs.  Carney,”  said 
Peggy,  “for  they’d  have  their  trouble  for  their 
pains.” 

“Peggy  Keaveney,”  said  Mrs.  Carney,  rising 
and  assuming  a patronizing  tone,  “I’ll  be  wishin’ 
you  a good-mornin’.” 

“Good-mornin’,  an’  good  luck,”  Peggy  replied 
exasperatingly. 

When  she  reached  Sally  M’Groary’s,  in  Dhri- 
muilin  Upper,  she  was  glad  and  proud  to  greet 
Yankee  Dan  himself  on  the  door  step.  Taking 
his  hands  in  both  of  hers  she  wrung  it  right  heart- 
ily, wishing  him  a hundred  thousand  welcomes 
back  to  old  Ireland. 

Dan,  in  his  own  charming  Yankee  accent, 
thanked  her,  and,  in  return,  bade  her  welcome  to 
his  “locality.”  “I  guess,”  he  said,  “Mrs.  Carney, 


MRS.  CARNEY  S SEALSKIN  191 

that  you  have  come  to  get  that  sealskin  jacket — 
ain’t  that  so?” 

Mrs.  Carney,  almost  blushing  with  mixed  de- 
light and  confusion,  yet  knowing  what  true  po- 
liteness required,  replied,  “I  came  to  see  yourself, 
Mr.  M’Groary,  and  to  bid  ye  welcome,  an’  to 
thank  you  for  your  extraordinary  kindness  in 
fetching  the  jacket  over  the  sea,  and  to  fetch  it 
home  with  me,  if  it  be  pleasin’  to  you.” 

Yankee  M’Groary  replied,  “I  guess  it  was  Bar- 
ney Brian  who  carried  the  good  news  to  you?” 

“It  was  Barney — God  bless  him!”  Mrs.  Car- 
ney replied. 

“I  calculated  so,”  said  Yankee  M’Groary,  “I 
can’t  just  now  recollect  whether  you  are  the  tenth 
lady  or  the  eleventh  (for  I’m  beginning  to  lose 
the  reckoning)  that  the  scoundrel  has  sent  to  me 
for  that  jacket  this  morning.  But  if  you  will  kindly 
step  within,”  he  said,  “you  can  count  them  for 
yourself.  It’s  they  that  are  risin’  the  mortal  hub- 
bub that  you  hear  within. 

“With  the  best  of  intentions,  Mrs.  Carney,”  he 
added,  “I  couldn’t  supply  ail  of  you  if  I owned  a 
private  sealskinnery.” 


XI 


THE  CAPTURE  OF  NELLY  CARRIBIN 

PATRICK  MELEY  was  a good  boy.  There 
is  no  gainsaying  that. 

The  farm  he  inherited  from  his  father 
was  one  of  the  best  in  Donegal;  that  was  not  to 
be  denied,  e'ither.  It  would  make  a fine  “sittin’- 
down”  for  any  prudent  young  woman.  And 
Patrick  was  a brave,  big,  fine-looking  fellow, 
worthy  the  best  woman  in  the  three  parishes. 

He  was  big-hearted  and  soft-hearted,  was  Pat- 
rick; simple-hearted,  too,  as  a child,  and  shy — 
very  shy  for  a young  man  of  six-and-twenty.  All 
the  world  was  aware  that  Patrick  had  courted 
Nelly  Carribin  (in  his  mind,  of  course)  for  six 
years  gone.  He  had  never  in  all  that  time  said  a 
word  or  looked  a look  meant  to  signify  his  appre- 
ciation of  Nelly.  It  was  the  words  he  did  not  say 
and  the  looks  he  did  not  look  that  convicted  Pat- 
rick, and  it  was  because  he  strove  so  hard  to  hide 
it  that  he  made  it  all  so  obvious — to  Nelly  her- 
self, not  less  than  to  an  amused  but  sympathetic, 
heartily  sympathetic,  world. 

192 


CAPTURE  OF  NELLY  CARRIBIN  193 

Now,  Nelly  was  a worthy  girl,  with  an  average 
share  of  good  looks,  and,  what  was  perhaps  more 
needful  to  Patrick,  more  than  an  average  share 
of  worldly  wisdom.  She  looked  with  favor  upon 
Patrick  because  she  knew  he  was  a very  good  boy 
who  owned  a good  farm,  and  for  the  six  years 
that  Patrick  courted  her  in  imagination  she,  acting 
a maidenly  part,  set  shyness  against  shyness  till  the 
parish  named  them : the  most  “distanate  cour- 
tiers” known  to  local  history.  But  half  a dozen 
years  of  this  kind  of  courting  by  imagination  at 
length  palled  upon  Nelly,  and  she  observed  that 
Patrick  was  as  shy  now,  and  as  wide  of  the  mark, 
as  on  the  first  day  she  had  detected  him.  So  it  be- 
hooved her  to  take  matters  in  her  own  hands — so 
far,  that  is,  as  she  might  do  so  without  compro- 
mising her  womanliness.  And  where  there’s  a will 
— especially  if  it  be  a woman’s — there’s  sure 
enough  a way. 

One  day  little  Jaimsy  Kerrigan  conveyed  to 
Patrick  Melly  Mrs.  Carribin’s  request  that  he 
might  step  over  to  her  house  when  he  had  fin- 
ished his  work  that  evening,  to  arrange  for  the 
carting  home  of  her  corn.  So  Patrick  found  him- 
self, an  hour  after  night  had  fallen,  with  his  heart 
in  his  mouth,  lifting  the  latch  of  the  Widow  Car- 
ribin’s door. 

“Patrick  Melly,  in  the  name  of  all  that’s  won- 


194 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


derful,  is  it  you  that’s  in  it?”  Nelly  Carribin, 
nursing  her  knitting  under  an  arm,  was  with  her 
apron  politely  wiping  her  own  chair,  and  setting 
it  for  him  on  a clean  and  cheery  hearth  in  front  of 
a blazing  fire.  “Musha,  Patrick,” — giving  it  a 
final  wipe  after  she  had  properly  settled  it  fof 
him, — “it’s  welcome  ye  are — though  you  are  a 
sight  for  sore  eyes.  Sit  down  there  and  take  a 
gleed  o’  the  fire.” 

Patrick,  whose  face  was  very  red, — maybe  from 
the  reflection  of  the  blaze, — did  not  raise  his  eyes 
to  Nelly’s  as  he  effusively  thanked  her.  He  laid 
his  hand  hesitatingly  on  the  chair-back,  but  did 
not  seat  himself.  He  said: 

“I  came  to  see — Nelly,  Pve  come  to  see — to 
see 

“My  mother,”  Nelly  said  with  the  very  re- 
motest flavor  of  asperity  in  her  tone.  “I  know 
very  well  you  have,  Patrick.  She  hasn’t  got  aise 
nor  paice  for  ten  days  gone,  talking  of  her  corn 
that  she  wants  in;  so  I told  her  thi’  day  to  send 
for  you  at  once,  an’  settle,  an’  be  done  with  it. 
Won’t  you  sit  down,  Patrick  Melly?” 

“Isn’t  your  mother  in,  then?”  said  Patrick, 
with  the  tone  and  manner  of  one  who  was  ready 
to  make  a run  for  the  door  if  the  answer  shouldn’t 
be  satisfactory. 


CAPTURE  OF  NELLY  CARRIBIN  195 

“She’s  not,”  Nelly  said  curtly;  “but  even  so,  I’ll 
guarantee  that  the  chair  ’on’t  bite  ye.” 

Patrick  hastily  dropped  into  the  chair.  Then 
Nelly,  with  a sigh,  took  her  seat  by  the  side  of 
the  hearth  as  far  from  Patrick  as  maidenly 
prompting  and  hospitality  would  permit.  She  had 
her  knitting  on  her  knee,  and  was  working  away 
industriously  as  soon  as  she  sat  down.  Taking  it 
in  with  the  tail  of  his  eye,  Patrick  mentally  ad- 
mired the  industry  that  prompted  this  girl  not  to 
waste  one  valuable  moment.  “Och,”  he  thought, 
“Nelly  Carribin  would  be  a treasure  in  a king’s 
chimley  corner.” 

“Yes,”  Nelly  said,  without  lifting  an  eye  from 
her  work — “yes — me  mother  got  a message  half 
an  hour  ago  to  go  for  to  see  Nancy  Sheeran  of 
Cruckrpore,  who  was  tuk  sudden  with  bad  pleurisy 
this  mornin’.  The  minute  you  come  in  I was 
just  wishin’  you  wouldn’t  come  for  an  hour  yet, 
beca’se  my  mother  would  be  back  then.” 

“Sure — sure — sure — P1J — I’ll — — «”  Patrick 

began  stammering  as  he  laid  a hand  on  his  chair  to 
raise  himself  out  of  it. 

“You’ll  what?”  said  Nelly,  staying  her  needles 
and  looking  at  him  sharply.  “Do  you  think  I’m 
afeard  o’  ye?”  she  added  scornfully. 

“Oh,  no;  oh,  no,”  said  Patrick,  and  subsided. 

As  she  resigned  herself  to  her  knitting  again, 


196  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

she  casually  remarked:  “Not,  indeed,  but  that  I 
should  be,  if  I took  warning  from  all  the  stories 
I do  be  hearin’  of  how  you  act  yourself,  Patrick, 
when  there’s  a good-lookin’  girl  in  question.” 

Patrick’s  spirits  were  lifted  immediately.  The 
great  ambition  of  his  heart  was  that,  without 
throwing  on  him  the  onus  of  practical  proof, 
Nelly  should  believe  him  to  be  a daredevil  fellow 
among  the  girls. 

“Nelly,”  said  Patrick,  in  a brilliant  burst  of  wit, 
“you  shouldn’t  believe  half  the  lies  that’s  goin’ 
among  the  gossips.” 

“Never  mind,”  said  Nelly;  “I  can  sometimes 
see  as  far  through  a millstone  as  the  man  that 
picked  it,  and  I know  well  the  slyness  of  you  boys, 
who  make  believe  butter  wouldn’t  melt  in  your 
mouths.” 

“Nelly,”  Patrick  said,  feeling  a wonderful  ac- 
cess of  courage  under  these  coveted  allegations, 
“Pm  not  of  the  sort  of  the  other  boys,  and  don’t 
think  it.” 

“Kind  father  to  you,”  said  Nelly,  “for  crediting 
the  rest  of  them  so  far!”  The  wit  of  this  was  too 
deep  for  Patrick.  Nelly  added  after  a moment: 
“That  is  your  notorious  modesty,  though.  I be- 
lieve in  my  heart  that  you’re  not  a great  deal 
worse  than  most  of  them.” 

Patrick  was  a bit  nonplused;  his  courage  was 


CAPTURE  OF  NELLY  CARRIBIN  197 

inclined  to  ebb.  “Do  you  think  will  your  mother 
soon  be  in,  Nelly?”  he  said. 

“She  may  walk  in  any  mortial  minute,”  Nelly 
said  warningly ; “so  you  had  better  keep  your  good 
behavior.” 

“Ha!  ha!  ha!”  laughed  Patrick.  “Don’t  be 
afeard  o’  me,  Nelly,”  he  said,  with  marvelous 
generosity. 

“Neither  I am  afeard  0’  ye,”  said  Nelly,  with 
bravery.  And  she  added,  encouragingly,  “Pm 
sure  it’ll  be  very  little  more  nor  an  hour  till  me 
mother’s  home.” 

At  this  information  silence  suddenly  fell  upon 
Patrick.  Nelly  took  no  notice  of  it.  She  said, 
after  an  industrious  plying  of  her  needles,  “My 
mother  is  a botheration  to  you,  Patrick,  every 
'time  she  ever  wants  anything  done.” 

“Don’t  say  it,  Nelly,”  Patrick  said  in  all  sin- 
cerity. 

“I  say  it,  and  I will  say  it,”  said  Nelly,  “for  I 
know  it.  I wish,”  she  added  with  a sigh,  “that 
we  had  a man  fixed  about  the  house,  anyway.” 

Patrick  bravely  said,  “Ay,  Nelly,  ay;  I wish 
you  had.” 

“It  is  why,”  said  Nelly,  “I  often  beg  of  my 
mother  to  marry  again.” 

Patrick  coughed. 


198  TOP  O’  THE  HORNIN’ 

“Don’t  you  think  she  should?”  Nelly  innocently 
queried. 

“I — I — I — I mean  to  say,  of  course,  she 
should,”  Pati'ick  got  out. 

Nelly  lifted  her  eyes  from  her  work.  Patrick’s 
eyes  were  on  the  ground.  She  flashed  an  angry 
glance  at  the  stupid  fellow. 

After  some  moments  she  resumed  in  quizzing 
tone:  “Talkin’  of  marryin’,  I hear,  Patrick,  that 
they  do  be  busy  makin’  matches  for  yourself 
lately.” 

“No,  do  they?”  said  Patrick,  interestedly. 

“Ay,  do  they!”  said  Nelly.  “An’  you  look  well 
purtendin’  to  know  nothin’  of  it.” 

“As  sure  as  there’s  powder  in  Derry,  Nelly, 
I’m  on  the  first  ground  I heard  of  it.” 

“Ha ! ha ! ha !”  laughed  Nelly.  “Simple  Simey, 
ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!” 

“In  troth,  Nelly,”  Patrick  said,  “I  never  heard 
a -word  of  it.”  Then  he  looked  at  her  meaningly. 
“Who  do  they  be  matching  me  on,  Nelly,  a stor?” 

“You  don’t  know,  I suppose?” 

“The  devil  a bit  o’  me!”  he  replied,  with  an 
encouraging  smile. 

“Why,”  said  Nelly,  bending  over  her  work, 
“you  know  very  well  that  they  do  be  matchin’  ye 
on  Mary  Roarty  of  the  Long  Bog.” 

Patrick  waxed  hotly  indignant  at  such  slander. 


CAPTURE  OF  NELLY  CARRIBIN  199 

Nelly  bent  farther  over  her  work,  so  that  her 
face  was  quite  invisible  to  Patrick.  When  he 
seemed  almost  to  have  expended  his  indignation 
Nelly  said,  “And  they  do  be  matchin’  you  on. 
Sally  McCready  of  Altmore.”  This  set  Patrick 
off  again.  “An’  likewise,”  Nelly  added  after  a 
little,  “on  Annie  Mary  Malone  of  the  Back  o’ 
the  Hill.” 

“It’s  a lie,”  Patrick  said.  And  then  he  apolo- 
gized for  his  rudeness,  explaining  that  he  had 
been  so  guilty  only  under  exceptional  stress  of 
temper.  Nelly’s  countenance,  bent  well  over  her 
knitting,  was  still  invisible  to  him. 

“Ah,  sure,”  she  said  at  length,  when  Patrick’s 
indignant  asseverations  and  denials  seemed  nigh 
exhausted — “Ah,  sure,”  she  said,  “that’s  the  way 
with  all  you  men — br’akin’  hearts  as  if  they  were 
bits  of  delf,  an’  either  forgettin’  or  denyin’  it 
the  next  day  after.” 

“It’s  not  the  way  with  me,  Nelly,”  said  Patrick, 
chivalrously,  and  he  felt  very  proud  of  himself  to 
impress  Nelly  that  though  he  might,  if  he  chose 
to  be  cruel,  amuse  himself  crumbling  the  hearts  of 
the  girls,  he  had  a soul  that  rose  above  it.  “No, 
’tis  not  the  way  with  me.” 

Nelly  knitted  away  thriftily.  Her  head  was 
still  bent.  “Ay,  oh,  to  be  sure  you  will  say  so. 
All  of  ye  say  that.  They  do  be  tellin’  me,  Pat- 


20C 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


rick — now,  when  you  dhrive  me  to  it — that  ye 
have  a girl  in  every  airt  ever  the  wind  blew  from.” 
Patrick  was  glad  that  Nelly’s  eyes  were  too 
low  to  detect  the  play  of  pleased  feeling  which 
lighted  up  his  countenance. 

“Arrah,  Nelly,”  he  said,  “why  do  you  even  the 
likes  o’  that  to  me?” 

“It’s  not  me  that’s  evenin’  it  at  all,  at  all,  to  ye. 
Sure,  it’s  the  parish  talk.” 

“Then  the  parish  talk  is  tellin’  lies  on  me.” 
“Poor  fellow!  they  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
themselves.” 

“Now,  Nelly,  you  don’t  believe  me?” 

“I’d  be  long  loath  to  believe  the  likes  of  ye,  ye 
common  desaiver.” 

“Well,  well,  well!”  he  said,  with  happy  resig- 
nation. 

“Do  you  know,”  said  Nelly,  “when  you  put 
your  hand  on  the  latch  the  night,  I just  guessed 
it  was  you  was  in  it,  an’  I’d  have  had  the  door 
barred  on  ye,  only  ye  were  in  on  me  too  quick.” 
“Bar  the  door  on  me!  An’  for  why,  Nelly 
a stor?” 

“That’s  the  why.” 

“What’s  the  why?” 

“That’s  the  why.  It’s  on  everyone’s  tongue  the 
bad  habits  ye  have  of  kissin’  the  girls.” 

“Oh,  Nelly!  Oh,  Nelly!” 


CAPTURE  OF  NELLY  CARRIBIN  201 


“An’  do  you  see  them  tongs  there?  Do  you 
see  them  tongs?”  thrusting  them  under  his  nose, 
the  more  emphatically  to  fix  his  attention  on  the 
article  specified.  “When  I found  you  were  too 
quick  for  me  to  have  the  door  barred,  I put  me 
hand  on  them  tongs,  and  says  I to  meself,  ‘the 
vagabone  ’ill  not  have  it  all  his  own  way,  in  troth, 
if  he  tries  for  to  kiss  me.' — Do  you  hear  that?” 
But  it  was  plain  to  the  most  undiscerning  that  un- 
der Nelly’s  brave  outward  show  there  was  lurk- 
ing dire  alarm.  “Och,”  she  said,  “I  wish  my 
mother  was  home!” 

A radiant  smile  was  lighting  up  Patrick’s  coun- 
tenance. He  was  surely  a wonderful  fellow 
among  the  girls. 

He  made  great  manifestation  of  moving  his 
chair  in  the  direction  of  Nelly;  in  fact,  with  three 
hitches,  he  got  it  forward  to  the  extent  of  half 
an  inch.  Hereupon  Nelly  sat  up  in  alarm,  and 
brandishing  the  tongs  said: 

“Don’t  dar,  Patrick  Melly!  I’ll  malavogue 
ye,  if  you  come  another  inch.” 

“Do  you  think  me  a coward?”  Patrick  said 
right  dauntlessly. 

“No  matter  whether  or  no.  Keep  your  dis- / 
tance;  for  I don’t  want  to  hurt  ye.  Sit  as  ye 
are  now.  I don’t  want  no  truck  with  the  likes 
of  a boy  like  you — who  has  a rag  on  every  bush.” 


202 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


Patrick,  now  vastly  pleased,  hereupon  crossed 
his  legs  and  folded  his  arms,  and  expatiated  upon 
young  men  being  young  men,  and  being  allowed 
to  have  their  little  frivolities,  which,  after  all, 
signified  but  little.  Even  if,  he  granted,  he  had 
been  a trifle  light-headed  in  the  past,  and  more 
than  ordinarily  a bit  of  a flirt,  courting  to  a great 
extent  merely  for  the  fun  of  it,  he  had  now,  he 
said,  decisively  made  up  his  mind  to  reduce  him- 
self to  one  girl,  and  court  her  not  for  fun,  but  in 
real  earnest. 

“Oh,”  Nelly  said,  “an’  who’ll  she  be,  Patrick?” 

Patrick,  instead  of  replying,  turned  his  eyes 
upon  Nelly.  After  a little  while,  under  constraint, 
Nelly  lifted  her  eyes  from  her  work,  and  met 
Patrick’s  full  upon  her. 

“I  was  saying,  ‘Who’ll  she  be?’  Patrick,”  said 
Nelly,  as  if  she  had  just  loked  up  for  the  pur- 
pose of  repeating  the  question. 

“Nelly,”  said  Patrick,  very  cautiously  hitching 
his  chair  still  nearer  to  her,  “can  you  guess  who 
she  is?” 

“Pm  sure  I can’t  for  the  life  o’  me.” 

“I’ll  give  you  three  guesses,  Nelly,”  and  the 
chair  moved  a bit  nearer. 

“Oh,  then,”  Nelly  said  confidently,  “I’ll  name 
her  in  three  guesses.” 

“Good!”  said  Patrick,  slapping  his  leg. 


CAPTURE  OF  NELLY  CARRIBIN  203 

But  though  Nelly  deliberated  deep  before  each 
guess,  she  failed  lamentably  to  name  the  girl  in 
three  namings.  “Then  I give  it  up,”  she  said  in 
despair. 

“Try  again;  I’ll  give  you  another  three 
guesses.”  And  with  another  hitch  Patrick’s  chair 
had  got  dangerously  close  to  the  chair  of  Nelly, 
who  was  too  much  preoccupied  to  be  aware  of 
her  danger. 

“There  isn’t  a bit  of  use.  I surely  thought  it 
was  one  or  other  o’  them  three.  Tell  me  who  is 
she,  Patrick,  that  you  intend  coortin’?” 

“Well,  if  I must  tell  ye,  I can  only  whisper  it 
in  your  ear.” 

“Aisy  with  ye  now,  an’  give  over  your  foolin’, 
Patrick  Melly.  Where  is  them  tongs?” 

But  Patrick  had  caught  her  ear’s  attention,  and 
he  whispered  something  softly  into  it. 

“Patrick,  Patrick  Melly,”  she  said  loud  in 
alarm,  “if  you  don’t  give  over  that  foolin’,  I’ll 
cry !” 

And  instantly,  without  giving  him  time  to  bene- 
fit by  her  warning,  poor  Nelly  began  to  weep. 

“Nelly  a stor,”  said  Patrick,  appealingly,  and 
involuntarily  his  arm  stole  around  her  even  with- 
out Nelly’s  becoming  aware  of  it — “Nelly,  Nelly 
a stor , won’t  you  forgive  me?  But  sure  I couldn’t 


204 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


help  speakin’  the  truth  that  has  been  for  a long, 
long  time  lyin’  like  a millstone  on  me  mind.” 

In  surprise  and  astonishment  at  such  a dis- 
closure, looking  up  through  her  tears,  Nelly  ex- 
claimed, ‘‘Aren’t  ye  or  not  ashamed  of  yourself, 
to  take  a hand  at  a poor  lonely  girl?” 

“Nelly,  Nelly,  my  heart,  I tell  ye  I’ve  been 
dyin’  for  ye  for  five  years.” 

“Ah,  Patrick,  do  ye  railly  mane  to  tell  me 
that’s  so?”  And  then  she  wept  again  as  Patrick 
soothingly  assured  her  that  it  was. 

“Who’d  ever  have  thought  it?”  she  said  be 
tween  sobs. 

“No,”  Patrick  said,  “you  never  would  have 
thought  it.  No  one  ever  could  have  thought  it — 
beca’se,  ye  see,  I was  so  deep  that  I never  betrayed 
the  smallest  little  sign  of  it.  But,  Nelly,  a gra, 
it  was  there  all  the  same.” 

“Well,  well,  well,  who’d  ever  have  thought 
it!  Who’d  ever  have  thought  it!  Och,  Patrick, 
Patrick,  Patrick,  but  you  are  the  wonderful  close 
fellow  to  hold  that  on  your  mind  all  this  long 
time,  an’  never  show  trace,  track,  or  sign  of  it!” 
“Nelly,”  said  Patrick,  “you  were  talkin’  a little 
while  ago  of  having  a man  about  the  house.” 
“Ay,  indeed.”  Nelly  blushed.  Then  she  said: 
“So  I was.  I think  me  mother  might  very  well 
marry.  Won’t  ye  help  me  to  persuade  her,  Pat- 


CAPTURE  OF  NELLY  CARRIBIN  205 

rick?”  And  poor  Patrick’s  countenance,  which 
had  been  fast  brightening,  suddenly  fell. 

“Nelly,”  he  said  after  a pause,  during  which 
Nelly  had  been  working  with  wonderful  industry, 
“there’s  more  ways  of  coaxin’  a man  about  the 
house  than  marryin’  your  mother  on  him.” 
“Indeed,  is  there,  Patrick?” 

“Ye-ye-yes.”  Then  Patrick  lost  his  speech. 
After  Nelly  had  waited  in  vain  for  him  to  find 
it  again,  it  suddenly  dawned  on  her:  “Oh,  you 
mean,  Patrick,  for  us  to  get  a hired  man?  Ah,  but 
we  can’t  afford  that  at  all,  at  all,  you  know.” 
“No,  no,  no,”  Patrick  said;  “I  wasn’t  thinkin’ 
of  a hired  man.” 

Nelly  stopped  her  needles,  leaned  her  elbow  on 
her  knee,  and  scrutinized  the  blaze,  as  if  she  were 
trying  to  read  from  it  the  solution  of  a very  knotty 
problem. 

Patrick  took  his  courage  in  both  hands,  leaned 
over,  and  said  in  her  ear,  “Nelly,  I mane  myself.” 
Nelly  gave  a great  start,  and  said  in  alarm, 
“Oh,  Patrick!” 

The  knitting  dropped  from  her  hands,  both  of 
which  went  up,  as  the  hands  of  an  alarmed  person 
will,  and  then  by  awkward  accident  fell  (of  all 
places  in  the  world)  into  Patrick’s  hands,  which 
were  slightly  advanced  toward  her.  They  were 


206 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


instantly  imprisoned,  and  Patrick  said,  “Well, 
Nelly,  what  do  you  say?” 

“Och,  och,”  she  gasped,  in  still  wilder  alarm, 
“sure,  I don’t  know  what  to  say  at  all,  at  all! 
Patrick,  ye  have  taken  the  breath  from  me.  Sure, 
I never  dreamed  of  such  a thing.” 

“Sure,  I know  you  didn’t,  Nelly.” 

“Sure,  I never  meant  to  marry  at  all,  at  all,  but, 
Patrick,” — turning  reproachful  eyes  upon  him — 
“you  are  such  a divil — an’  have  such  a way  with 
ye, — that — that — och,  don’t  ax  me!” 

“But,”  he  said,  resolutely,  “I  will  ax  ye,  and  I 
dar’  ye  to  refuse.” 

“Och,  I would  like  to  refuse  you — -if  I could, 
Patrick;  that  is — but — but — but — Och,  bad  cess 
to  my  mother!  What  drove  her  out  the  night 
anyway?” 

“Come,  Nelly,”  he  urged  encouragingly. 

“Och,  Patrick,  this  is  neither  manly  nor  fair 
of  ye.  Sure,  I haven’t  any  backin’  at  all — and — I 
suppose — I must — must — say  yes — an’ — bad  ’cess 
to  my  mother !” 


XII 


THE  BELLMAN  OF  CARRICK 

CARRICK  would  soon  have  to  look  out  for 
a new  bellman  who,  followed  by  a tail  of 
smear-faced  children,  would  clang  his 
handbell  up  and  down  the  few  crooked  streets  of 
the  village;  and  in  the  market-square,  with  great 
voice,  cry  its  momentous  announcements.  .Very 
soon  it  would  have  to  look  out  for  such  another 
one;  for  Dinis  Lafferty  was  dying. 

Carrick  was  still  primitive  enough  to  despise 
doctors,  and  the  fanciful  ailments  in  whose  wake 
they  invariably  follow,  or  vice  versa.  When,  after 
a prolonged  and  pleasant  pilgrimage,  a Carrick- 
man  found  Death  come  plucking  at  his  latch- 
string, he  just  stretched  himself  on  his  bed  (for 
appearance  sake) , and  died  at  his  own  ease.  Dinis 
was  even  now  reconciling  himself  to  answer  the 
Call.  He  had  a load  of  his  death  on  him.  Had 
a doctor  been  suffered  in  Carrick,  he  would  have 
probably  misnamed  it  a load  of  fever;  but  the 
knowledgeable  old  neighbor-women,  who  were 
called  in  to  shake  their  heads  over  him,  put  it  in 

207 


208  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

the  former,  simpler  shape.  And  Dims  agreed 
with  them. 

On  this  afternoon  little  thirteen-year-old  Brid- 
get Clancy  was  the  attendant  on  the  dying  bell- 
man, in  his  one-roomed  thatched  cabin — of  the 
humble  row  that  tailed  off  at  the  end  of  the  main 
street.  It  was  a bright,  warm  May  morning; 
and  Bridget  could  not  resist  the  frequent  temp- 
tation to  peep  out  of  the  little  window — tempta- 
tion all  the  sorer  since  it  was  fair-day  in  Carrick 
— a great  day!  whose  sights  and  sounds,  and  flow 
of  gay  life,  always  stirred  the  hearts  of  the  young- 
sters. “I  dunno  will  the  Men  soon  be  here?” 
Bridget  at  length  remarked,  half  to  herself. 

“What  Men?”  the  patient  queried  in  a languid 
enough  kind  of  way. 

“Why,  the  men  from  Bla  Cliath — the  men 
from  Dublin.” 

“The  men  from  Bla  Cliath ?”  Dims  was  now 
interested. 

“Ay;  them  that’s  cornin’  the  day  to  tell  us  to 
speak  our  own  Irish  again.” 

“What’s  that?”  To  Bridget’s  consternation 
the  dying  man  was  on  his  elbow.  “What’s  that?” 

Bridget  said,  “Dinis,  darlin’,  ’on’t  you  lie 
down?” 

“Tell  me  what  you’re  ravin’  about?”  Dinis 
commanded  irritably. 


THE  BELLMAN  OF  CARRICK  209 

“I’m  ravin’  about  nothin’  at  all,  at  all. — Sure, 
Father  Tom  told  us  off  the  altar,  last  Sunday, 
about  them  cornin’  here  thi’  day,  he  said,  to  make 
the  people  begin  speakin’  again  their  own  beauti- 
ful tongue.” 

Bridget  was  frightened  by  the  fierce  way  Dinis 
stared  at  her.  To  her  great  relief  he  spoke  at 
length — softly  too. 

“Bridget,  a mhilisf  a leanbh  mo  chroidhef*  do 
tell  poor  dyin’  Dinis  the  truth.  Is  it  jokin’  ye 
are?” 

“The  sorra  joke  or  joke.  For  why  would  I, 
sure?  Wasn’t  I listenin’  with  my  own  two  ears 
to  Father  Tom  tellin’  it  off  the  altar?  An’  sure, 
weren’t  we  all  listenin’  to  it?” 

“Glory  be  to  God  1”  Dinis  let  himself  roll  back 
into  the  attitude  becoming  a man  sick  unto  death 
— and  permitted  Bridget  to  hap  him  up. 

He  did  not  speak  again  for  a good  while.  His 
heart  had  begun  aching  with  a heavy  ache ; for 
his  mind  ran  again  upon  a subject  the  most  dis- 
tressing his  life  had  known.  When  he  was  a 
youth,  getting  up,  the  language  of  their  own  coun- 
try had  been  good  enough  for  everyone  in  Car- 
rick;  for  great  and  small,  for  old  and  young;  the 
shopkeeper  spoke  it  as  well  as  the  tinker;  it  was 
the  tongue  of  the  priest,  the  gauger,  the  beggar; 


*0  Sweet!  O child  of  my  heart! 


210 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


it  was  the  language  near  to  the  heart  of  man  and 
maid.  It  was  the  tongue  of  sweetness,  of  great- 
ness; it  was  the  language  of  the  soul.  The  Gaelic 
was  then  in  esteem;  the  Beurla  (English)  was 
only  heard  in  a broken  way — that  made  men  laugh 
— from  a few  bodachs — or,  on  rare  occasions, 
from  a stranger  who  wore  Sunday  clothes. 

Put  it  was  decided  by  the  powers  that  ruled 
them,  that  the  language  of  their  hearts  should  be 
put  away.  So  National  Schools  were  given  to 
them — oh,  the  cruel  mockery  of  the  knaves  who 
named  them  National! — and  the  careless  child 
who  would,  within  the  walls  of  these  schools,  let 
slip  the  language  of  its  mother,  was  beaten,  often 
till  the  blood  came.  This  Irish  tongue  was 
laughed  at,  jeered;  the  children  came  to  despise  it, 
and  jeer  at  it  themselves — even  their  parents  at 
length,  began  to  feel  ashamed  of  It,  and  to  put  it 
aside,  and  to  make  themselves  ridiculous  in 
maimed  Beurla.  Still  worse,  in  the  shabby  sec- 
ond hand  manners  of  the  foreigner,  also.  In 
ache  of  heart  and  bitterness  of  spirit,  Dinis  had 
observed  the  deep  degradation  descend  upon  his 
fellow-citizens. 

In  one  short  generation,  it  came  to  pass  that 
the  mountain  folk  who  clung  to  the  old  tongue, 
and  to  the  customs  of  their  fathers,  were  laughed 
at  on  the  streets  of  Garrick! 


THE  BELLMAN  OF  CARRICK  211 


Dinis’s  cup  was  then  full.  Dims  was  an  utterly 
unlearned  man,  and  untraveled:  his  Ignorance  (as 
the  world  viewed  it)  was  colossal.  Even  he 
granted  so  to  himself.  Nevertheless,  he,  Oisin 
indliiadh  na  b-Fhian,  had  some  riches  in  his  breast 
that  travel  never  discovers,  and  schools  seldom 
impart.  At  the  outset  he  had  made  a bold  stand 
against  the  tide  of  shame  that  threatened  Carrick; 
but  the  tide  overpowered  Dinis,  bore  him  down, 
with  shouts  of  mockery  ringing  in  his  ears — that 
bitterest  mockery,  too,  of  those  whose  shame  he 
had  striven  to  fend  from  them.  When,  at  length, 
the  bellman  of  Carrick  was  compelled,  standing 
in  the  market-place,  to  cry  his  announcements  in 
the  tongue  which  had  supplanted  the  language  of 
his  heart,  his  spirit  broke.  The  manful  bellman, 
though  yet  hardly  three  score  and  ten,  aged  rap- 
idly; the  light  left  his  eyes;  his  step  lost  its  spring; 
his  head  was  carried  high,  no  more. 

“Oh,  glory  be,  here  they’re  cornin’ ! here  they’re 
cornin’  I” 

The  bellman  started  from  his  sorrowful  dream- 
ing. He  was  up  on  his  elbow  again — listening. 
Bridget’s  brown  curls  were  thrust  over  the  top  of 
the  little  window.  She  was  gazing  up  the  street: 
she  was  talking  excitedly.  “Oh,  Dinis,  there’s 
three — four — 'five — of  them  ! — gentlemen ! — gen- 
tlemen in  grand  shop  clothes ! and  hard  black  hats  1 


212 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


— And  a lady,  too! — Oh,  there’s  a born  lady! 
Oh,  such  a grand  lady ! — with  the  gran’est  new 
dress  on  her  ye  ever  seen!  Oh!  oh,  oh!  such  a 
dress,  Dinis  dear.  Shower-o’-hail  an’  everything! 
and  my!  the  hat  she  has!  Oh,  Dinis!  Dinis, 
you’d  die  aisy  if  you’d  only  get  wan  sight  o’  the 
hat ! — Here  they  come ! Oh,  here  they  come ! 
They’re  goin’  past  now.  Do  you  hear?  Do  you 
hear  the  cheerin’,  Dinis?  Oh,  and  the  gatherin’ 
that’s  after  them ! And  Father  Tom  himself  with 
his  staff,  at  the  head  of  the  gatherin’ ! And  him 
walkin’  young  and  straight  again ! Ah,  you  never 
seen  Father  Tom  lookin’  as  bold  an’  brave;  an’ 
he  grippin’  his  staff  as  if  he  wanted  to  be  knockin’ 
down  onyone  who’d  say  boo ! Oh,  Dinis ! Oh, 
Dinis ! but  it’s  the  gran’,  gran’  sight !”  Bridget 
now  withdrew  from  the  window. — “They’re  goin’ 
to  the  Square  for  meetin’  an’  speechifyin’  an’  danc- 
in’, Pm  told,  an’  singin’ !”  she  said  wistfully.  “All 
in  Irish ! all  in  Irish  ! — Och,  I wisht  I was  there !” 

The  bellman,  never  speaking,  allowed  himself 
to  fall  back  on  the  bed  again.  He  lay  in  silence 
for  a while.  Then  suddenly  he  said,  “Bridget, 
why  don’t  you  go?” 

“Ay,  but  sure,  Dinis,  I couldn’t  leave  ye?”  Yet 
an  expectant  light  was  dancing  in  the  bonny  brown 
eyes  of  her. 


THE  BELLMAN  OF  CARRICK  213 

“Tubbe  sure  you  can,  a leanbhf  Run  away  a 
thaisge!”  j . L 'W 

“Oh,  Dinls,  Dinis,  thanky!”  And  she  clapped 
her  hands  for  grateful  joy.  “Then  I’ll  send  In 
wee  Mary  Malley  to  mind  ye  till  I come  back. — • 
I’ll  be  no  time  gone.” 

“You’ll  send  in  no  one!”  Dinis  spoke  almost 
angrily.  “I  want  no  one,  an’  Mary  Malley  should 
be  at  the  meetin’  as  well  as  ye.  I never  felt  bet- 
ter in  all  me  life.  Be  off  with  ye,  Bridget,  till  ye 
hear  them  gran’  Dublin  folks  that  God  sent  down 
here  to  open  our  eyes  to  our  disgrace. — Off  with 
ye,  a mhilis,  fast.” 

Bridget  needed  little  encouragement.  She  was 
soon  gone,  and  had  the  door  slammed  behind  her. 
Dinis  hearkened  to  her  footstep  as,  light  and 
fast,  it  sped  by  the  window.  When  she  was  well 
away  he  arose  out  of  bed  and  dressed  hastily — 
in  his  Sunday  clothes.  He  took  down  from  the 
hole  in  the  wall,  high  up  by  his  bed  head,  the 
faithful  bell  that  had  been  his  bread-winner  for 
forty  years;  he  brushed  the  dust  off  it  affection- 
ately, and,  gripping  it  by  the  tongue,  went  to  the 
door,  lifted  the  latch,  and  passed  out  into  the 
street. 

But  little  of  the  throng  and  bustle  of  the  fair 
extended  so  far  up  as  the  bellman’s  cottage.  Away 
down  from  him  he  saw  the  sheep  ranged  by  the 


214 


TOR  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


house-sides,  and  buyers  and  sellers  busy  among 
them;  farther  down  still,  he  saw  cattle  being 
driven  hither  and  thither;  and  he  saw  crowds  of 
people  everywhere — especially  thronging  around 
the  public  houses,  vThere  neighbor  brought  neigh- 
bor for  a friendly  glass,  and  seller  brought 
buyer,  for  sake  of  luck  and  decency.  Farther  away 
still,  he  caught  a glimpse  of  the  distant  Square, 
and  of  surging  masses  of  people  there  assembling, 
and  of  half-a-dozen  people  rising  up  over  the 
heads  of  all  the  rest — the  Bla  Cliath  folk  taking 
their  stand  on  a platform  he  knew. 

The  bellman  strode  down  the  street.  As  he 
did  so,  astounded  people,  who  on  coming  into 
town  that  day  had  been  saddened  by  the  sorrow- 
ful intelligence  that  Dinis  Lafferty  was  dying,  and 
had  breathed  a prayer  for  his  easy  passing,  ran  to 
him  with  joyous  faces  and  outstretched,  greeting 
hands.  But  Dinis  ignored  them.  His  gaze  was 
ahead.  He  raised  his  bell  now,  and  began  to  ring 
it  aloud.  A curious  crowd  closed  in  after  him. 
He  paused  when  he  got  amongst  the  denser 
crov/ds,  a little  wray  dowm  the  street,  and  the  peo- 
ple circled  him  to  hear  him  cry  his  announcement. 
“ A dhaoine  mo  chroidhe!”  he  cried,  uO  people 
of  my  heart ! this  is  the  great  news.  This  is  the 
great  news  entirely — Ireland’s  day  has  come  at 
last.  Gentlemen  and  ladies — rale  gentlemen  and 


THE  BELLMAN  OF  CARRICK  215 

ladies — from  the  big  city  of  Bla  Cliath  have  come 
all  the  way  to  tell  us  that  Ireland’s  tongue  and 
the  tongue  o’  the  Saints  is  to  be  spoke  again  in 
Carrick — spoke  without  shame  or  sin,  a dhaoine 
mo  cliroidhe!  O people  of  my  heart!”  And, 
ringing,  he  spread  his  arms  abroad  as  if  he  would 
take  them  all  to  his  bosom.  “O  people  of  the 
heart  0’  my  heart!  leave  your  sheep  and  your 
cattle,  leave  your  pigs  and  your  bags,  leave  your 
chafferin’  and  hagglin’,  and  follow,  follow,  fol- 
low! to  the  Square,  till  you  hear  again  the 
heavenly  music  of  Teanga  na  h-Eireann  * the 
sweet  tongue  of  your  fathers,  that  is  old  as  the 
mists  on  the  hills,  and  richer  than  all  the  mines 
of  Mexy-co.  Gather,  gather,  people  o’  my  heart ! 
Gather  you,  O princely  people  o’  the  mountains 
who  never  yet  lost  the  tongue,  nor  ever  reddened 
for  shame  of  it.  Come  with  me,  and  knbw  your 
pride.”  Dancing  in  Dinis’s  eyes  was  a bright  light, 
which  had  fascination  for  everyone  who  saw  it. 

Striding  forward  again,  he  rang  out  louder  than 
before.  Old  Sorcha  left  her  stocking-stand  un- 
heeded, and  hastened  after  him.  The  mountain 
weavers  left  their  unsold  webs  uncared  for,  and 
followed.  Men  who  minded  wayward  pigs  in  the 
market-places  handed  over  to  unwilling  youths 
the  restraining  ropes  and  tumbled  after  Dinis. 

*The  tongue  of  Ireland 


2l6 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


He  paused  in  front  of  Neilis  MacGiolla-Chiar’s 
public-house,  rang  loudly,  and  cried  his  beseeching 
cry  to  the  people  of  his  heart;  and  the  men  who 
were  there  settling  for  cows  instantly  waived  dis- 
puted luck-penny,  pulled  the  drawing  strings  on 
their  money-bags,  and,  buttoning  their  treasure 
into  their  vests  as  they  came,  poured  helter-skelter 
out  of  doors  to  swell  the  bellman’s  following.  He 
rang  his  way  in  and  out  through  the  crowds,  gath- 
ering to  him  as  he  went  sweet-faced  old  country- 
women in  snow-white  caps  and  many-colored  ker- 
chiefs, and  gnarled  and  bent  rheumatic  old  men 
from  the  hills  who  hobbled  on  sticks.  These,  hear- 
ing the  glad  tidings,  came  with  joy — together  talk- 
ing glibly  and  loudly  in  the  tongue  that  was  come 
into  regard  again — the  tongue  they  had  never  re- 
neged. 

And,  only  for  these  faithful  old  heroes  and 
heroines  had  the  bellman  any  respect  to-day.  The 
youths — the  S^w/tf-jabbering  creatures  whom  the 
surging  throng  pressed  in  his  way — he  contemptu- 
ously slung  aside.  His  port  was  proud;  but  he 
beamed  beatifically  on  the  veteran  heroes,  and 
they  lifted  high  their  heads.  Dinis’s  look  plainly 
spake,  “You,  fellow-Trojans,  and  I,  are  the  salt 
of  the  earth  to-day.”  “We  are,  we  are!”  their 
looks  shouted  back.  Voluntarily,  somehow,  was 
accorded  to  them  the  place  of  honor  in  the  pro- 


THE  BELLMAN  OF  CARRICK  217 

cession — right  at  Dinis’s  heels.  The  Beurla- 
speakers,  and  the  bodachs  with  the  new  customs 
and  the  new  manners  and  the  new  dress,  trailed 
shame-facedly  in  the  rear. 

“Gather,  gather,  gather,  O noble  people ! Peo- 
ple o’  my  heart,  gather!  for  Ireland’s  day  has 
come !” 

“A  d'haoine  uaisle!  O noble  people ! the  black 
day  of  the  Gall  is  gone  at  last,  and  the  bright  day 
of  the  Gael — Ireland’s  and  yours — is  come  ! O 
people  o’  my  heart,  follow  me ! follow  me !”  He 
strode  on;  the  people  of  his  heart  swelled  the 
ranks  behind;  and,  greeted  by  a cheer  almost  ter* 
rific  in  its  vehemence,  he,  belling  his  way,  led  his 
own  enthusiastic  contingent  into  the  midst  of  the 
multitude  on  the  meeting  ground. 

Hundreds  amongst  these  latter,  amazed  to  see 
here  the  bellman  whom  they  had  lamented  as 
dying,  would  have  pressed  forward,  both  to  greet 
him  and  to  satisfy  their  curiosity  on  the  miracle 
of  his  sudden  cure;  but  the  light  on  Dinis  Laf- 
ferty’s  countenance  and  the  exalted  look  in  his 
eye  humbled  and  repressed  them.  So  that  even 
the  most  impetuous  almost  reverently  drew  back. 
There  was  a high  color,  too,  on  Dinis’s  cheeks 
that  no  one  ever  saw  there  before. 

Dinis,  mounting  the  platform,  presented  him- 
self to  the  Bla  Cliath  people  who  were  there.  He 


2l8 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


held  the  bell  (gripped  by  the  tongue)  in  his  left 
hand,  while,  in  spirit  of  true  Irish  courtesy,  with- 
out the  absurdity  of  introduction,  he  warmly  shook 
the  hands  of  the  strangers,  bidding  them,  in  the 
tongue  they  had  come  to  popularize,  an  hundred 
thousand  welcomes  to  his  village.  His  duty  done 
as  Carrick  town’s  representative,  he  took  the  seat 
tendered  to  him  beside  the  Dublin  folk,  and  looked 
over  the  multitude  with  dignified  approbation. 

Then  the  strangers,  under  the  presidency  of 
Father  Tom,  told  in  warm  words  the  great  doings 
of  these  days  in  Dublin — of  the  new  life  which 
was  being  infused  into  the  language  which  had 
been  thought  dying;  how,  nightly,  gathered  in 
crowded  back  rooms,  young  and  old,  in  the  great 
city,  were  ardently  spelling  their  way  through 
books  of  Gaelic;  how  the  movement  was_ spread- 
ing like  wildfire  north  and  south;  and  the  language 
for  ages  banned  and  barred  was  now  reaping  tardy 
esteem  in  high  places.  On  the  bright  faces  of  the 
•hearkening  mountain  people  joy  was  pictured,  and 
for  each  glad  fact  told  them  they  cried  out  with 
great  hoarse  cries  of  delight — at  times  their  wild 
cheers  startling  the  ruminating  cattle  in  the  far 
market-place. 

Except  for  the  occasional  lifting  of  his  hat  in 
sympathy  with  a much-merited  cheer,  the  bell- 
man, listening  intently  to  every  word  that  dropped 


THE  BELLMAN  OF  CARRICK  219 

from  the  strangers’  lips,  showed  strange  self-re- 
pression. 

Though  Father  Tom  proudly  and  finely  and 
creditably  directed  the  speech-making;  yet  when  it 
was  over,  and  the  old  men  and  women,  and 
little  toddling  children,  came  up  to  compete  in 
singing,  in  story-telling,  and  dancing,  for  the 
prizes  that  the  Dublin  folk  tendered,  a better 
man  took  arbitrary  control.  The  bellman  felt 
this  was  his  task.  Ringing  his  bell  for  attention, 
he  announced  in  turn  each  competition.  Scanning 
the  audience  he  selected  the  proper  competitors 
for  each  trial  of  talent,  and  summoned  them,  by 
name,  to  the  platform.  He  granted  the  Dublin 
people  the  honor  of  suggesting  the  competitions 
and  distributing  the  prizes.  He  put  forward,  and 
stood  by,  each  essayer,  singer  and  dancer  and 
story-teller;  encouraging,  approving,  censuring,  or 
dismissing,  as  the  case  required — and  awarding 
the  prize.  Father  Tom  ventured,  a few  times,  to 
assert  a Chairman’s  prerogatives:  but  Dinis,  hav- 
ing neither  time  nor  inclination  just  now,  for  de- 
bating society  trivialities,  with  an  impatient  wave 
of  his  hand  suppressed  Father  Tom.  He  had  had 
his  innings  in  directing  the  speech-making.  And 
Dinis  had  not  once  interfered.  It  was  now  Dinis’s 
turn — his  duty  he  felt,  rather  than  his  privilege. 

After  the  little  children  had  danced,  so  well 


220 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


that,  at  times,  their  twinkling  feet  hardly  touched 
the  hoards;  and  the  fair-skinned,  white-haired, 
old  women,  fingering  the  fringes  of  their  shawls, 
had  crooned  their  haunting  songs;  and  old  men 
leaning  on  sticks,  and  speaking  from  the  dan- 
gerous brink  of  the  platform,  had  told  their  mar- 
velous tales  of  Finn  and  Gol  and  Conal  Cearnach 
and  the  days  when  there  were  men  in  Erin ; a trial 
in  oratory  was  announced.  A blazing  shining 
medal  that  made  all  eyes  glisten,  was  offered  for 
prize;  and  the  subject  given,  the  seductive  one  of 
Teanga  na  h Eireantt — the  old  Tongue  of  Erin. 
Hereupon  the  bellman’s  eyes  glistened  anew,  he 
listened  intently,  yet  all  but  impatiently,  to  elo- 
quent unlettered  orators  who,  fired  by  their  sub- 
ject, compelled  the  incessant  applause  of  the  gath- 
ering. When  the  others  had  spoken,  the  bellman 
got  to  his  feet. 

Except  to  tell  his  people  of  an  auction,  Dinis 
Lafferty  had  never  in  his  life  addressed  an  audi- 
ence, never  practiced  the  arts  of  oratory,  nor  mas- 
tered its  tricks;  but  he  felt  not  now  the  lack.  Mas- 
terful, he  faced  the  multitude  and  calmly  awaited 
the  subsidence  of  the  great  roar  with  which  it 
greeted  him.  Then  he  began  to  speak.  And  it 
was  the  man’s  soul  that  spoke  to  a spell-bound 
audience.  From  the  bellman  burst  a torrent  of 
eloquence.  Even  Father  Tom  was  amazed. — 


THE  BELLMAN  OF  CARRICK  221 


The  Bla  Cliath  folk  were  astounded;  the  multi- 
tude overwhelmed.  His  face  lit  up,  his  eye  blazed, 
and  from  his  ready  tongue,  picturesque,  entranc- 
ing language  flowed  free  and  fast.  His  hands 
moved  easily  in  appropriate  gesture.  He  swayed 
the  great  crowd  as  he  would.  They  swelled  with 
pride  and  tingled  with  shame,  they  were  stirred 
with  rage,  soothed  with  love,  bit  with  sarcasm, 
melted  with  pathos,  inspired  with  courage,  terri- 
fied with  fear.  His  audience  did  not  know  him. 
They  forgot  he  was  the  bellman.  He  forgot  it 
himself.  He  was  out  of  himself — borne  away  on 
the  fierce  flood  of  his  own  eloquence.  And  when 
at  length  he  subsided  into  his  seat  and  the  man 
with  the  gold  medal  proceeded  to  pin  it  on  Dinis’s 
breast,  the  surging  mass  of  men  below  cheered 
and  thundered  and  volleyed  in  applause,  till  they 
ceased  from  exhaustion. 

It  was  now  the  Rosary  hour.  Father  Tom,  his 
face  glowing,  announced  that  the  Rosary  would 
be  this  day  and  during  all  the  days  to  come,  in 
Carrick,  recited  in  their  own  Gaelic  again — after 
fifteen  years  of  forgetfulness. 

The  great  crowd  surged  to  the  chapel — filled 
and  overflowed  it — and  masses  knelt  on  the  street 
pavement.  Fervent  and  loud,  beyond  anything 
ever  heard  in  that  chapel  before,  were  the  re- 
sponses rendered  in  their  own  tongue  of  music 


222 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN 


this  evening.  The  most  fervent  responses,  and 
loudest  of  all,  were  those  of  Dinis  Lafferty.  When 
the  devotional  enthusiasm  was  at  its  climax  a 
commotion  arose.  The  bellman  had  collapsed. 

He  was  carried  out  unconscious — and  so  to  his 
home.  It  was  midnight  ere  consciousness  re- 
turned. He  peered  about,  in  the  dim  light  of  his 
cabin,  perceived  Father  Tom,  with  anxious  look 
seated  by  his  bed-head — and  several  neighbors, 
silent,  around  the  little  apartment. 

“How  do  you  feel,  Dinis?”  Father  Tom  asked. 
“Bravely,  thank  God  and  you,  Father  Tom! 
A bit  waik  maybe — but  bravely,  bravely. — Was  I 
long  steepin’,  Father  Tom?” 

“Long  sleeping!  Ah,  yes,  a good  while,  Dinis.” 
Dinis  was  silent  for  some  minutes.  Then  a 
smile  came  out  and  played  about  his  lips.  He 
said,  “Father  Tom,  I had  the  most  wonderful 
dhraim  you  ever  heerd  tell  of  in  your  born  days.” 
“Indeed,  Dinis.” 

“Ay,  indeed.”  And  Dinis  related  to  his  amazed 
audience  a great  dream  which  he  had  had,  to  the 
effect  that  the  language  of  his  heart,  the  tongue 
which  had  been  dying,  or  dead,  was  come  to  life 
again;  that  great  folks  from  the  big  city  of  Bla 
Cliath  had  come  down  even  to  poor  Carrick  to 
tell  the  joyful  tidings;  that  all  the  people  were  as- 
sembled in  the  market-place  to  hear  it;  and  that 


THE  BELLMAN  OF  GARRICK  223 


the  Dublin  folks  offered  grand  prizes  for  songs 
and  forstories  in  the  old  tongue;  and  that,  in  par- 
ticular, they  offered  a beautiful  yellow,  glistening, 
glittering,  shining,  gold  medal — oh,  the  beautiful- 
est  the  eye  of  man  ever  beheld — to  the  country- 
man who  would  make  the  finest  speech  in  praise  of 
the  old  tongue.  “And  I thought,”  said  Dinis, 
“that  I got  on  the  platform  and  made  a speech 
that  astonished  myself,  and  the  likes  of  which  was 
never  listened  to  afore,  and  that  the  people 
cheered  and  cheered,  and  the  Dublin  men  pre- 
sented me  with  the  medal,  and  stuck  it,  all  glister- 
in’ an’  shinin’,  on  my  breast.” 

“But,  Dinis,”  Father  Tom  said,  “that  wasn’t  a 
dream  at  all — but  real  fact.” — “Here,”  said  he, 
holding  up  the  shining  yellow  badge,  “here’s  your 
beautiful  medal  that  you  won.” 

Dinis  for  a moment  looked  at  the  medal  with 
eyes  widening,  as  in  affright.  Then  he  clutched 
it  with  both  hands,  pressed  it  to  his  lips  and  to 
his  breast.  “Father  Tom,”  he  whispered,  “Fa- 
ther Tom,  then  it  is  all  true?  It’s  all  true?” 
“Every  word  of  it,  Dinis,  my  poor  fellow. 
You’re  the  hero  of  Ireland. — But  do  you  know 
that  you  are  dying,  Dinis?  It’s  proper  for  you  to 
know  it.” 

“Dyin’  am  I?” 

“Shrived  an’  leavin’  us,  Dinis.” 


224 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


“And  what  are  you  afeerd  of,  Father  Tom,  that 
your  voice  trimbles?  What  matters  my  dyin’ 
when,  sure,  the  language  is  goin’  to  live?”  With 
clasped  hands  he  pressed  the  medal  to  his  heart, 
and  lifting  up  his  eyes,  sayed  from  his  soul, 
“Glory  be  to  God  this  night!” 

He  was  silent  for  a few  minutes.  Then  he 
spoke.  “Father  Tom,  och,  if  only  I could  take 
this  medal  with  me.  When  good  St.  Peter  would 
bar  my  way  at  the  gate  askin’,  ‘Cia  thusa,  a dheo- 
raidhe?’  (Who  are  you,  O exile?),  I’d  straighten 
myself,  an’  lift  my  head,  proud-like,  and  answer 
him,  ‘A  Thighearna  ro-urraimighe,  is  fior-Eirean- 
nach  me’  (Worshipful  sir,  it’s  a true  Irishman, 
I am.)  And  when  he’d  naturally  swither  a bit 
about  takin’  my  word  for  it,  I’d  thrust  under  his 
eyes  that  medal — ‘Feuch  sin,  a dhuine  choir!’ 
(Look  at  that,  good  man.) — Isn’t  it  he’d  then 
draw  the  bolt  in  quick  time  and  throw  wide  open 
the  gate  with  ‘Siubhal  isteach,  a fhior-eirean- 
naighe,  a’s  cead  failte  romhat  ’nn  an  Fhlaithis!’ 
(Walk  in,  O true  Irishman,  and  a hundred  wel- 
comes before  you  in  Paradise.) — And  the  sound 
of  his  strong  welcome  would  deafen  all  Paradise 

with  the  la — the  langua — the  lang ” 

But  the  bellman  of  Carrick  never  finished  the 
sentence  in  this  world. 


XIII 


BARNEY  BRIAN’S  MONUMENT 

BARNEY,  with  the  rest  of  us,  used  to  come 
and  sit  in  Toal-a-Gallagher’s  of  nights,  and 
hear  the  latest  war  news  from  America  dis- 
cussed. It  was  when,  to  our  pain,  North  and 
South  had  sprung  at  each  other. 

John  Burns’  weekly  paper  gave  us  the  broad 
news  of  the  war,  and  occasional  American  letters 
threw  side-lights  upon  interesting  concomitant 
phases. 

Night  by  night  the  discussion  had  a deeper  fas- 
cination for  Barney.  Barney  loved  a row  as 
keenly  as  any  man  in  the  barony;  and  could  acquit 
himself  with  as  much  credit. 

“Arrah,  Charlie,”  he  would  say  to  Charlie  Dun- 
nion,  of  the  Bearna  Dearg,  when  they  had  heard 
the  account  of  the  latest  skirmish — “Arrah,  Char- 
lie, if  me  an’  you  had  only  been  in  the  mi’st  of  it, 
with  our  good  blackthorns  in  our  fist,  I’d  a’  given 
me  wan  eye,  Charlie — wouldn’t  you?  Och,  och! 
there’s  divil  a bit  of  fun  at  all,  at  all,  in  Ireland 
nowadays,  an’  myself’s  spoilin’  for  divarsion.” 

225 


226 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN 


The  news  of  the  big  bounties  that  were  offered 
for  substitutes,  too,  made  Barney’s  eyes  dilate  with 
wonder.  The  whole  thing  had  for  him  the  fasci- 
nation of  a fairy  tale.  And  it  did  not  surprise 
us  very  much  when,  on  a night  that  a wonderful 
letter  from  Brian  Melly — Brian  Micky  Hude,  of 
Lettertraina,  who  had  just  joined  the  Army — had 
been  read,  Barney  jumped  from  his  seat  into  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  and  said:  “By  gum!  but  I’m 
for  the  wrar.” 

And  he  was.  In  less  than  twenty-four  hours 
Barney  Brian  had  his  passage  taken  for  America 
again,  and  had  arranged  to  sail  in  two  weeks. 

There  was  lamentation  from  end  to  wynd  of 
the  parish.  For  we  never  knew  how  much  we 
liked  Barney  Brian  till  we  found  he  was  going  to 
leave  us. 

Barney,  since  his  widowed  mother  died,  had 
neither  mother  nor  brother,  chick,  child,  or  one 
belonging  to  him.  He  did  a day’s  work  to  this 
man,  that  one  or  the  other;  was  well  fed,  bedded 
and  clad,  and  after  that  snapped  his  fingers  at  the 
world  and  the  devil;  for  “no  cow,  no  care,”  was 
his  maxim. 

A reckless,  rollicking,  devil-may-care  fellow  he 
was,  to  whom  life  was  a lilt,  and  the  world  a big 
joke  full  of  fun,  frolic,  and  fair-days,  He  could 
sing  at  his  own  wake,  and  dance  at  his  own  burial; 


BARNEY  BRIAN  S MONUMENT  227 

and  would  sooner  have  a fight  than  a feast  any 
day,  and  proved  by  his  stories  that  fiction  was 
stranger  than  fact. 

At  everything  that  was  bad,  Barney  was  best 
in  the  parish — he  was  the  best  boxer,  the  best 
caman  player,  the  best  dancer,  whistler,  and 
singer,  the  best  at  cards,  and  the  best  at  the 
blackthorn;  but,  to  crown  all,  Barney’s  head  was 
as  full  of  rascally  tricks,  as  an  egg  is  full  of  meat ; 
and  there  was  not  an  individual  in  the  parish  that 
he  had  not  at  one  time  or  other  fooled  for  his 
own  fun,  and  the  enjoyment  of  everyone. 

There  was  lament,  I say,  from  end  to  wynd  of 
the  parish.  The  tear  was  near  to  Father  Dan’s 
eye  even,  when  he  gave  Barney  his  blessing,  and 
his  advice.  “But,  Barney,”  he  said,  “for  one  thing 
I know  ye’ll  not  forget  us  when  ye’re  far  away — 
no  more  than  we’ll  forget  you;  and  I know,  too, 
that  in  war  or  in  peace,  ye’ll  never  do  a thing  that 
can  be  a cast-up  to  Knockagar.” 

Three  houses,  no  less — Padraic  Mor’s,  and 
Toal-a-Gallagher’s,  and  Corney  Hegarty’s — were 
given  up  to  Barney’s  convoy  the  night  before 
he  started,  and  all  three  crowded  from  the  hearth- 
stone to  the  doorstep  with  them  that  came  to  en- 
joy the  last  spree  in  Barney’s  honor.  Barney 
was  loaded  with  messages  from  fathers  and 
mothers  to  children  in  all  corners  of  the  States. 


228 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


He  did  not  hesitate  to  take  charge  of  all;  and 
would  as  cheerfully  have  taken  charge  of  as  many 
more,  had  such  been  forthcoming.  “And  boys,” 
Barney  said,  with  his  face  lit  up,  “after  the  war, 
provided  Pm  neither  hung,  shot,  dead,  nor  a pres’- 
ner,  it’s  I’ll  be  the  rich  man,  an’  I’ll  spend  every 
penny  of  me  wealth  buyin’  presints  to  fetch  home 
to  yous,  only  savin’  as  much  as  ’ill  give  yous  all, 
the  night  I come  home  again,  the  grandest  blow- 
out that  ever  was  known  in  these  parts  since 
Micky  M’Gurran’s  nine-day  carouse,  the  time  he 
brought  home  the  wife  with  the  fortune,  from 
County  Monaghan.” 

“God  guard  ye !”  “God  prosper  ye !”  and  “God 
send  ye  luck,  Barney  a thalsge!”  we  said,  and 
cheered  till  the  rafters  cracked. 

And  when  in  the  morning  Barney  took  the  road, 
with  Billy  Brogan  and  the  Widow’s  Pat  before 
him  carrying  his  box  (which  Heaven  knows,  but 
for  decency,  might  well  have  been  shouldered  by 
Pat  alone,  without  stressing  him),  half  the  parish 
took  the  road  with  him  to  see  him  well  on  his 
way,  and  the  other  half  stood  at  their  doors  to 
press  his  hand,  and  pray  God  to  speed  him  to  for- 
tune, and  watch  over  him  in  the  war;  there  was  a 
glisten  in  the  eye,  and  a gulp  in  the  throat  of  many 
a one  that  day. 

It  was  no  use  either,  Barney’s  trying  to  kill 


BARNEY  BRIAN’S  MONUMENT  229 

their  grief  with  a shaft  of  wit,  or  smother  it  with 
merry  reminiscence. 

“Now,  Jimminy,  me  son,”  to  old  stooped  Jim- 
minny  Haraghey,  “if  ye  go  givin’  the  lads  a wake 
afore  I come  back,  I’ll  reckon  ye  a meaner  man 
than  I used  to  think  ye.  I want  to  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  helpin’  to  turn  the  sod  on  ye and,  “Arrah, 
Shusie  Gallagher,  don’t  ye  mind  all  the  tanthrums 
I’ve  put  ye  in,  with  me  thricks ! keep  up  your  heart, 
Shusie  a gradh,  for  with  God’s  help,  I’ll  tor- 
ment ye  again  an’  again.” 

But  the  old  women  only  smiled  very  sadly  at 
Barney’s  jokes  now,  and  making  him  bless  him- 
self, and  bend  his  knee,  shook  the  holy  water  on 
him  ere  he  hastened  on  his  way. 

So,  when  he  had  got  clear  of  Cruckagar,  Bar- 
ney was  almost  drenched. 

“I  trust  in  the  Lord,”  he  said,  as  he  shook  him- 
self, “that  I’ll  not  take  the  rheumatiz.” 

But  when  Barney  reached  the  very  highest  point 
of  the  road,  where  it  runs  over  the  Bearna  Dearg, 
he  turned,  and,  crossing  his  arms,  in  silence  took 
a last  long  look  at  his  loved  Knockagar  where  it 
lay,  lonely,  dreary,  and  gray,  below.  We  looked 
at  him,  and  at  Knockagar,  but  we  said  no  word. 

After  a long  time  Barney  shook  his  head  slowly 
from  side  to  side,  and  he  waved  one  hand  toward 
the  scenes  he  was  going  from  and  said:  “God  be 


230 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


with  ye,  Knockagar!”  That  was  all.  Then  he 
plucked  a bit  of  heather  from  the  brown  moor 
that  runs  into  the  roadside  there,  and  put  it  in  the 
inside  pocket  of  his  waistcoat,  and  walked  on. 
And  for  the  rest  of  the  way,  while  we  were  with 
him,  Barney  joked  no  more. 

He  enlisted  on  the  very  day  he  set  foot  in 
America;  and  in  less  than  two  months  after,  the 
word  came  from  him — to  Toal-a-Gallagher’s — 
that  the  President  had  ordered  him  “to  the 
front”;  and  Toal  explained  for  our  enlightenment 
what  that  phrase  meant.  “And,  hi!  for  the  fun 
and  the  fighting,”  Barney  said  in  his  dictated  let- 
ter, “Barney  Brian  is  going  to  distinguish  himself 
and  cover  himself  and  Knockagar  with  glory.” 
He  requested  that  Brian  Managhan,  the  stone- 
cutter, should  be  asked  to  mark  out  and  reserve 
until  his  return,  the  largest  stone  in  Drimkeelan 
quarry — “For  I mean  to  erect  at  the  cross-roads, 
when  I go  back,  a monument  to  my  memory,  ‘To 
the  memory  of  Colonel  Barney  Meehan,  an  Irish- 
man, and  an  American  soldier,  who  was  a native 
of  this  humble  locality,  and  born  in  it,  and  who 
won  the  American  war,  having  been  sent  to  the 
front,  and  kept  there,  till  the  enemy  run — what 
of  them  wasn’t  left  dead  on  the  field.’ 

“Of  course,”  he  said,  “I’ll  get  Master  Who- 


BARNEY  BRIAN’S  MONUMENT  231 

riskey  to  put  it  into  far  grander  English,  regard- 
less of  cost.” 

When  Toal  took  off  his  spectacles,  after  reading 
Barney’s  epistle,  he  waved  them  solemnly,  and 
said — - 

“An’,  boys,  joke  as  Barney  may  about  that 
moniament,  we’ve  seen  greater  wonders  than  the 
Americay  Govermint  itself  settin’  up  a statiay  of 
Barney  Brian  right  on  the  middle  of  the  main 
street  of  New  York — in  recognition  of  distin- 
guished sarvices  rendered.” 

And,  indeed,  we  all  agreed  it  was  a hopeful 
sign  to  find  that  the  President  had  already  dis- 
covered Barney’s  undoubted  abilities,  and  recog- 
nised them  by  sending  him  to  the  front. 

And  when,  now,  a stranger  from  Killymard  or 
the  Oileigh  happened  into  Toal’s  of  a night,  and 
inquired  how  the  war  went,  it  gave  us  pride  to 
hear  Toal,  as  he  drew  a stitch  or  drove  a peg,  re- 
ply: 

“Well,  the  divil  a much  startlin’  there  has  been 
of  late,  but  we’ll  soon  be  hearin’  somethin’ — for 
the  President  has  ordered  Barney  Brian  to  the 
front.” 

“Phew-ew-ew !”  the  stranger  would  whistle  (for 
Barney,  and  Barney’s  fighting  qualities  were,  of 
course,  as  familiar  as  the  Hail  Mary  to  everyone 


232 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


within  the  bounds  of  the  barony) — “Phew!”  he 
would  say,  “then  there’ll  be  news  purty  soon.” 

“Yis,”  Toal  would  say,  deftly  pairing  a sole- 
edge,  “the  fate  of  Americay  is  now  on  the  tosser.” 

As  we  sat  in  a circle  around  Toal  and  his  jour- 
neyman (with  our  elbows  on  our  knees,  and  bodies 
leant  forward,  as  was  our  habit),  and  watched 
them  ply  their  work,  in  fancy’s  eye  we  conjured 
up  the  picture  of  the  American  nation  with  bated 
breath  pausing  for  the  issue,  while  the  sword- 
strokes  of  Barney  Brian  reverberated  over  the 
land  from  ocean  unto  ocean. 

When  Barney  did  reach  the  front,  he  did  not 
forget  Toal-a-Gallagher  and  Knockagar.  He 
wrote  a long  letter  at  least  once  a fortnight — 
sometimes  once  a week.  Barney  Brian’s  “letters 
from  the  front”  became  the  sensation  of  the  coun- 
try. 

They  were  wonderfully  interesting,  containing, 
as  they  did,  news  of  doings,  and  even  of  battles, 
that  had  entirely  escaped  the  ordinary  war  corre- 
spondents, giving  strikingly  graphic  descriptions 
of  great  encounters,  and  picturing  all  the  stirring 
events  of  the  war,  in  a brisk,  breezy,  racy  fashion, 
to  which  the  unoriginal  press  man  was  a total 
stranger. 

Barney  Brian  and  General  Grant  were  per- 
forming prodigious  deeds  of  valor  that  made 


BARNEY  BRIAN’S  MONUMENT  233 

everyone  of  us  in  Knockagar  feel  a foot  higher. 
The  slaughter  that  Barney  with  his  own  good 
right  hand  wrought,  was  something  appalling; 
those  who  supported  him  in  the  war  had  a trying 
time  indeed  clambering  over  corpses  and  wading 
shoe-mouth  deep  through  bloody  slush. 

“Arrah,  tell  Billy  Brogan,”  said  Barney,  “that 
this  isn’t  like  swingin’  a blackthorn  in  Ardara 
fair.” 

On  one  occasion,  when  pressed  hard,  Barney 
had  to  fight  with  a sword  in  each  hand,  and  carry- 
ing a led  one  in  his  mouth.  In  one  particularly 
stiff  battle  his  blade  got  so  heated  with  hard  work, 
that  when  he  returned  it  to  the  scabbard  it  burnt 
that  to  a cinder.  I cannot  tell  the  sorrow  we  all 
felt  when  Barney  informed  us  that  he  had  lost  the 
Cliabh  Soluis,  which  he  had  named  after  the  won- 
derful sword  in  our  old  folk  tales.  In  one  battle 
where  the  enemy  pressed  too  thickly  upon  Bar- 
ney, it  seems  he  had  the  ill-fortune  to  run  the 
Cliabh  Soluis  through  five  men  at  one  time,  and, 
as  he  could  not  withdraw  it  quickly  enough,  he  had 
to  seize  another  sword  and  go  ahead,  or  lose  his 
life. 

Barney,  with  the  innate  modesty  that  we  had 
ever  known  to  distinguish  him,  frankly  disclaimed 
being  the  hero  of  all  the  most  notable  deeds  of 
the  war.  He  wrote  us  the  full  account  of  the 


234 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


Mayo  boy  who  fought  for  five  minutes  and  killed 
two  men  after  his  head  was  cut  off.  And  the  poor 
fellow  might  have  continued  his  ludicrous  play 
only  that  Barney,  seeing  his  comrades  were  laugh- 
ing, took  pity  on  him  and  drew  his  attention  to 
Ihe  fact  that  he  was  a dead  man. — “For  there’s 
your  head,”  says  I (these  were  the  words  of  Bar- 
ney’s letter)  “lyin’  at  the  gray  horse’s  heels  be- 
yont.” 

It  seems  it  was  cut  off  so  deftly  and  quickly  that 
the  poor  Mayo  boy  never  found  it  going;  but  he 
could  not  now  deny  the  evidence  of  his  senses : so, 
heaving  a sigh,  he  threw  away  his  sword  and 
stretched  himself  full  length  among  the  rest  of  the 
dead.  Keenly  as  he  felt  for  the  poor  fellow,  Bar- 
ney said,  he  could  barely  keep  from  laughing  him- 
self. 

During  all  that  time  in  which  Barney’s  letters 
from  the  front  were  coming,  everyone  went  to 
Toal-a-Gallagher’s  at  night  to  hear  the  latest 
wonders  from  Barney  and  the  wars.  And  the  one 
letter  was  often  discussed,  again  and  again,  for 
fifteen  nights  in  succession,  Toal  himself  illuminat- 
ing the  text  in  a more  striking  and  effective  man- 
ner on  each  succeeding  night. 

We  all  agreed  that  Barney  Brian,  God  bless 
him  and  watch  over  him ! was  such  a credit  to 
Knockagar,  as  few  men  ever  had  been  to  the  place 


i 


BARNEY  BRIAN’S  MONUMENT  235 

that  gave  them  birth;  and  that  he  and  General 
Grant  were  head  and  shoulders  above  all  t%e 
other  heroes  of  the  war. 

But  one  thing  that  mortified  us  much  was  the 
fact  that,  for  some  unexplained  reason,  the  news- 
papers maintained  a conspiracy  of  silence  regard- 
ing the  distinguished  conduct  of  Barney. 

John  Burns  at  length  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  Barney  had  an  envious  enemy  of  wealth  and 
influence,  who  bribed  or  coerced  the  press. 

“It  isn’t  that.  It  isn’t  that,”  said  Toal-a-Galla- 
gher. 

“An’  how  then  can  ye  explain  to  me  the  cure-yus 
fact,”  said  John,  “that  while  we  don’t  see  poor 
Barney’s  name  wanst  mentioned  in  the  accounts 
of  all  them  battles  that’s  a-fightin’,  General  Grant 
is  at  the  beginnin’  an’  the  middle,  an’  the  end  an’ 
all  through  them.” 

“The  raison,”  said  Toal,  holding  out  for  our 
inspection  the  hammer  with  which  he  wrought, 
“is  as  plain  as  that  hammer  in  me  hand.” 

He  paused,  to  give  us  time  to  acknowledge  the 
palpability  of  his  illustration,  and  when  on  leisure- 
ly reflection  we  had  granted  the  premise  by  an  ap- 
proving nod  of  our  heads,  Toal  proceeded. 

“General  Grant,”  he  said,  “gets  his  due  share 
of  praise — bekase  he’s  General  Grant;  Barney 
Brian  is  totally  ignored — bekase  he’s  only  poor 


236  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

Barney  Brian.”  To  which  conclusive  argument 
we  all  (including  even  John  Burns),  bent  our 
heads,  and  said  sadly:  “Right  ye  are,  Toal.” 

Suddenly  Barney’s  letters  ceased  coming. 

Two  weeks  passed  without  a letter,  three  weeks, 
four  weeks.  And  the  nightly  group  in  Toal’s  be- 
gan to  shake  their  heads.  There  was  one  little 
gleam  of  hope  though,  to  which  they  fondly  clung. 

“He  may  be  a pres’ner  of  war,”  said  Toal-a- 
Gallagher;  and  we  fervently  hoped  he  was. 

“In  that  case,”  the  Widow’s  Pat  said,  “the 
President  ’ill  either  have  him  ransomed  or  rais- 
cued.” 

“Either  ransomed  or  raiscued,”  said  Toal. 

But  alas!  poor  Barney  was  beyond  the  power  of 
Presidents  to  ransom  or  rescue. 

An  American  newspaper  a couple  of  months  old 
came,  by-and-by,  to  Neil  Dunnion,  of  Glencoagh, 
from  his  son  John.  In  the  war  news  was  an  item 
which  spread  a gray  melancholy  over  Knockagar. 
It  said: 

“In  the  repulse  which  a detachment  of  our 
troops  met  on  Wednesday  morning,  when  attack- 
ing the  enemy’s  outpost  at  Merritt’s  Farm,  special 
mention  should  be  made  of  the  intrepid  conduct 
of  a young  Irishman,  Private  Bernard  Meehan, 
who  twice  rallied  his  comrades  when  they  were 
being  forced  by  overwhelming  odds  to  retreat, 


BARNEY  BRIAN’S  MONUMENT  237 

and  who,  when  eventually  his  comrades  were  com- 
pelled to  fly  in  disorder,  leaving  fifty  dead  behind 
them,  heroically  scorned  to  move,  but  single- 
handed  received  the  charge  of  the  enemy,  and 
fought  fiercely  and  furiously,  till  he  fell  in  his 
tracks.  His  body  was  recovered  when,  on  Wed- 
nesday evening,  the  enemy  was,  by  a strengthened 
force,  dislodged;  and,  in  recognition  of  the  valiant 
fellow’s  heroism,  was  interred  with  military  hon- 
ors. 

When  for  the  hundred  and  first  time,  Toal, 
with  a high  head,  but  yet  faltering  tongue,  read 
from  the  much  soiled  paper  this  item  to  another 
newcomer,  we  again  took  off  our  hats  and  with 
lowered  heads  listened  to  the  last  record  of  poor 
Barney;  and  when  Toal  had  finished  we  said: 
“May  God  have  mercy  on  ye,  Barney  Brian! 
Amen!  Amen!” 

• •••••• 

When  Johnnie  MacDyer  came  home,  three 
years  after,  with  a sergeant’s  pension,  he  told  us 
all  about  Barney. 

Barney  had  been  in  his  company,  as  well  as 
Toal-a-Gallagher’s  son,  the  Vagabone,  and  four 
other  Knockagar  boys. 

Barney  Brian,  he  said,  was  the  boldest  and  best 
fighter  that  shouldered  a musket  in  the  Civil  War; 


238  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

and  Barney  would  sooner  be  fighting  than  eating 
bread  and  butter. 

Johnnie  said  that  Barney  never  went  into  a 
skirmish  or  battle  without  a piece  of  heather  stuck 
in  the  front  of  his  cap — the  piece  which  he  pulled 
at  the  Bearna  Dearg,  when  he  took  his  last  sad 
look  at  Knockagar. 

“If  the  coward  feelin’  (which  God  forbid!), 
should  ever  come  over  me,”  Barney  told  his  com- 
rades, “the  thought  of  what’s  stuck  in  me  cap  ’ill 
narve  me  again — bekase,  with  a sprig  of  heather 
from  within  sight  of  Knockagar  in  me  cap,  I 
wouldn’t  yield  ground  to  a battalion  of  divils.” 

And  as  he  said,  he  felt.  Barney  never  did  re- 
treat. Twice  on  the  day  on  which  he  fell,  Ser- 
geant MacDyer  told,  he  saved  the  situation  with 
that  sprig  of  heather.  For  when  his  comrades 
would  retreat,  he  just  waved  the  cap  with  its  sprig 
of  heather  in  the  faces  of  the  half-dozen  Knock- 
agar boys,  and  sang  out,  “Knockagar  a buaidh! 
a buaidh!”  * with  the  result  that  the  Knockagar 
boys  held  their  ground  and  thus  rallied  the  re- 
mainder of  the  detachment. 

When  at  length  Barney  fell  fighting  alone, 
there  were  three  of  the  Knockagar  boys  already 
stretched  wounded  or  dead  on  the  hill-side,  close 
by  him — one  of  them  Sergeant  Johnnie  MacDyer; 

* Gaelic  for  “To  Victory !” 


BARNEY  BRIAN’S  MONUMENT  239 

Johnnie,  by-and-by,  was  able  to  crawl  to  where 
Barney  lay.  He  said  that  Barney  was  hacked  and 
riddled  in  a pitiful  fashion. 

“ ‘Barney  a bhouchaill!’  says  I,  ‘are  ye  dead?’ 
when  I looked  at  him. 

“Barney  opened  one  eye  an’  looked  at  me  for 
a minute. 

“ ‘Johnnie,’  says  he,  ‘I’m  dead  if  I was  sen- 
sible.* How  is  it  with  yourself?’ 

“ ‘Och,’  said  I,  ‘nothin’  to  talk  of  barrin’  a leg 
or  so  gone,  I suppose.’ 

“ ‘Then,  Johnnie,’  says  he,  for  the  devilment 
was  dancin’  in  him,  an’  the  life  only  just  cornin’  an’ 

goin’  with  his  breath ‘Then,  Johnnie,  ye 

mumbskull,’  says  he,  ‘ye  must  be  a dead  man,  since 
ye  haven’t  a kick  in  ye.  And,  Johnnie,’  says  he, 
‘if  God  sends  that  ye  ever  take  the  life  with  ye 
back  to  Knockagar,  I’d  like  to  be  hearin’  ye  tell 
the  story  in  Toal’s.  Is  Patrick  Melly  down?’  says 
he. 

“ ‘Pathrick,'  says  I,  ‘is  down  an’  dead  (God 
have  mercy  on  him)  ; Micky  Ruadh  is  wounded, 
an’  the  rest  of  the  Knockagar  boys  are  safe.’ 

“Barney  didn’t  say  a word  for  some  minnits. 

“ ‘May  God  have  mercy  on  poor  Patrick,’  says 
he,  ‘an’  but  it  is  me  is  sorry  for  his  poor  widda 

* i.e.  “I  should  be  dead,  if  only  I had  the  sense  to  acknowl- 
edge it.” 


240 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


mother. — Johnnie,’  says  he,  ‘Taigie  Haghie  is  my 
purse  carrier.  Whichever  of  ye  comes  through 
these  wars  with  the  life,  I want  him  to  give  Father 
Dan  one  poun’  for  masses  for  me — an’  the  rest  is 
to  buy  a milk-cow  for  the  Widda  Melly.  There’s 
a bit  of  heather,’  says  he — ‘don’t  laugh  at  me, 
Johnnie,  but  I want  it  to  be  buried  with  me,  cap 
an’  all.  On  the  last  day,  Johnnie,  there’ll  be 
half-a-dozen  Knockagar  lads  proud  to  muster 
roun’  it.’  ” 

“A  priest  came  along  now,  an’  lay  down  beside 
Barney  to  confess  him  an’  give  him  the  rites. 

“ ‘Johnnie,’  says  he  to  me  after,  CI  now  feel  as 
light  as  when  the  creel  would  come  off  me  back 
after  takin’  two  hundred  iv  buildin’  stones  to 
the  top  of  Dhrimkeelan  hill  to  Paddy  Mhaire’s 
new  house.’ 

“He  lived  three-quarters  of  an  hour  after. 
An’  just  afore  he  did  die,  he  says,  ‘Johnnie!’ 

“ ‘What  is  it,  Barney  a gradhf’  says  I. 

“ ‘Do  ye  know  what  Pm  thinkin’  of?  Ha ! ha  !’ 
says  the  poor  fella  strugglin’  to  get  a laugh  out 
of  him. 

“ ‘I’m  thinkin’  about  the  moniamint  to  meself 
that  I promised  Toal  an’  the  lads  at  home,  to 
erect,  when  I’d  go  back  with  rank  an’  riches.’ 

“Says  I,  ‘Well,  Barney,  comfort  yourself,  be- 


BARNEY  BRIAN’S  MONUMENT  241 

kase  on  account  of  the  Widda’s  milk-cow  there’ll 
be  a moniamint  afore  ye  in  Heaven.’ 

“ ‘But,  ha ! ha ! that’s  the  point,  Johnnie  a 
thaisge,’  says  he,  ‘the  Widda’s  cow  itself  ’ill  be 
the  rarest  moniamint  ever  the  mind  of  man  in- 
vinted — a moniamint  walkin’  about  on  four  legs 
and  givin’  milk,  an’  theivin’  in  Matthew  Malia’s 
kail-garden.  Johnnie,  did  ye  ever  hear  tell  of  the 
bait  of  it?’ 

“Poor  Barney  turned  his  head  to  the  wan  side, 
an’  the  soul  went  out  of  him  while  the  smile  was 
still  on  his  face  at  the  consait  of  the  thing. 

“I  closed  his  hand  on  the  bit  of  heather.  An’ 
on  the  Last  Day  it’s  Barney  Brian  ’ill  be  the 
plaised  man  when  he  opens  his  eyes  an’  finds  it 
there.” 

• • • • • • 

And  every  night  and  morning  that  the  Widow 
Melly  milked  the  monument  (for  going  out  or 
coming  in,  it  was  known  by  no  other  name  than 
“Barney  Brian’s  Moniamint”),  she  prayed  to 
God — a prayer  that  found  an  echo  in  every  heart 
in  Knockagar — that  Barney’s  awakening  might 
be  a glorious  one. 

And  somehow  I think  it  will  be  so. 


XIV 


ALL  ON  THE  BROWN  KNOWE 

MICHAEL  CONNOLLY  was  now  warm 
and  well-to-do — trig  and  snug,  as  we 
say,  with  a faithful  little  wife  and  five 
rosy-cheeked  children,  and  twenty  acres  of  prime 
land  lying  along  the  bottom  of  Cronaraid  Moun- 
tain. Though,  indeed,  one  strip  of  his  land,  the 
Stony  Park,  tore  away  from  the  remainder,  and 
sprang  up  the  side  of  the  hill  for  the  length  of  a 
long  gun-shot,  enclosing  within  its  upper  limit  the 
one  little  green  patch  of  the  whole  hillside,  the 
choice  dancing-ground  of  the  fairies  of  Cronaraid, 
with  its  little  well  whose  waters  were  sweet,  and 
which  was  called — though  in  Gaelic — the  Fairy 
Bowl.  With  his  dear  little  wife  Mary,  and  his 
five  chubby  children,  and  his  snug  farm,  Michael 
should  have  been,  and  was,  a happy  man,  as  well 
as  a prosperous.  To  be  happy  and  prosperous 
he  well  deserved,  for  he  was  a model  to  the  parish, 
a comfort  to  the  sorely-tried  heart  of  Father 
Tom,  and  pre-eminently  a religious  man,  whose 
fervent  prayer  in  trial  ever  was,  “Thy  will,  O 
Lord,  not  mine,  be  done.” 


242 


ALL  ON  THE  BROWN  KNOWE  243 

As  Michael  was  blessed,  his  trials  were  few. 
But  one  great  trouble  he  had,  else  had  we  no 
story.  ’Twas  under  the  Fairy  Bowl  that  the 
cause  of  his  trouble  lay.  At  the  bottom  of  this 
little  basin  of  water — as  all  the  world  knows,  and 
as  anyone  can  find  for  himself  by  testing  with  his 
umbrella,  and  as  one  may  often-times  see  laid 
bare,  when  in  the  summer  the  well  goes  dry — is  a 
great  broad  flag — an  unusual  well-bottom,  but  be 
it  remembered  that  this  was  a fairy  well — a great 
broad  flag  that  (as  all  the  world  again,  and  par- 
ticularly the  parish  of  Drimard  knows)  covers 
a crock  of  gold,  that  was  hidden  there  about  two 
thousand  years  ago  by  an  old  pagan,  who,  at  the 
same  time,  left  an  ugly  big  serpent  to  guard  it. 
This  fellow  has  done  his  work  well  and  faithfully, 
having  now  for  two  thousand  years,  day  and 
night,  embraced  the  crock  with  many  coils,  quit- 
ting his  charge  only  for  five  minutes  on  the  morn- 
ing of  every  Sunday  and  holiday — the  five  min- 
utes of  the  Elevation,  during  Mass,  in  the  chapel 
of  Drimard,  which  stands  in  full  view,  and  lies 
only  half  a mile  away  from  the  well.  During 
these  sacred  minutes,  the  monster,  free  to  quit  his 
charge,  uncoils  himself,  and  by  way  of  an  under- 
ground brooklet  makes  rapid  journey  down  the 
hillside  to  the  larger  stream  below,  returning  im- 
mediately— a weekly  walk  for  exercise  merely. 


244 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


It  was  this  crock  of  gold  that  at  one  period  of 
his  life  weighted  for  years  Michael  Connolly’s 
soul,  threatening  the  happiness  that  had  always 
been  his,  and  certainly  undermining  it,  had  not 
his  good  angel  suddenly  and  surprisingly  saved 
him  in  the  manner  which  this  story  relates. 

That  the  crock  of  gold,  with  its  demon  guar* 
dian,  lay  securely  under  the  flag  beneath  the  Fairy 
Bowl  was  beyond  a doubt;  for  any  aged  man  in 
the  parish  could  tell  you  that  the  fact  was  an  ad- 
mitted one  in  his  barefoot  days  fourscore  years 
before,  and  had  been,  too,  in  the  like  days  of  his 
father,  and  of  his  father’s  father;  and  on  account 
of  the  demon  that  dwelt  in  serpent  shape  beneath 
the  pleasantly  set  Fairy  Bowl,  the  Fairy  Bowl 
was  dreaded  and  shunned  then  as  now.  All  his 
days,  of  course,  Michael  had  known  well  of  the 
existence  of  this  treasure  upon  his  land;  yet  had 
it  not  given  him  much  concern.  It  was  there,  and 
it  was  not  meant  for  human  hands ; that  was  suffi- 
cient. He  toiled  and  moiled,  gathering  gold  in 
the  way  in  which  it  brings  most  benefit  and  least 
bane  in  its  train.  But  at  length,  when  through  his 
own  perseverance  and  the  kindliness  of  his  soul, 
he  attained  that  height  of  enviable  affluence  where 
a man  may  sport  an  unpatched  broadcloth  coat, 
Sunday  and  holiday,  fair-day  and  market,  and 
look  with  pardonable  pity  upon  less  fortunate, 


ALL  ON  THE  BROWN  KNOWE  245 

more  bepatched  neighbors,  whom,  cheerily  salut- 
ing, he  passes  on  the  way,  Michael’s  mind,  mys- 
teriously enough,  began  to  run  more  and  more 
upon  the  hidden  crock  of  gold.  It  was  pity  to 
have  so  much  good  wealth  going  waste,  of  no 
benefit  whatsoever  to  the  old  pagan  who  owned 
it,  or  to  the  serpent  which  guarded  it,  any  more 
than  to  the  world  at  large.  It  was  wonderful  to 
think  that  such  a pile  of  yellow  gold  lay  on  his 
land,  only  a few  spade-deep  beneath  the  surface. 
What  good  might  not  Michael  do  if  he  had  in 
his  possession  this  hoard?  Good  to  all  his  poor 
neighbors  around  him;  to  the  chapel,  that  sorely 
needed  a new  roof;  to  Father  Tom,  whose  black 
coat  was  very  green;  and  to  the  world  wide — not 
to  mention,  of  course,  the  direct  benefit  resulting 
from  it  to  Michael  Connolly.  This  latter, 
Michael  felt  assured,  weighed  least  with  him — 
though,  to  be  sure,  there  was  a neat  little  farm 
lying  into  his  own  and  belonging  to  Little  Johnny 
McGrory,  which  would  very  soon  be  in  the  market 
( for,  God  help  Little  Johnny,  the  world  was  going 
ill  with  him!),  and  it  would  be  mighty  pleasant 
if  Michael  had  the  power,  by  purchasing  this,  of 
doubling  his  landed  possessions;  and  there  was  a 
field  of  Jimminy  Hegarty’s — no  great  things  of 
a field,  of  course,  but  still  a field — further  up  the 
valley,  which  it  was  thought  Jimminy  would  part 


246  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

with  if  any  man  had  the  pluck  to  dar’  him  with  a 
neat  price;  and  there  was — ay,  there  were  two  or 
three  other  fields,  or,  maybe,  four  or  more,  here 
and  there,  which  would  fatten  fine  calves  and 
raise  a mortal  grand  crop  of  potaties,  and  which 
would  make  a very  valuable  addition  to  any  man’s 
little  farm.  It  would  delight  Michael’s  heart, 
also,  to  see  little  Patrick  (his  eldest)  made  into  a 
priest — but  it  would  take  money  to  do  that.  And 
little  Johneen  too  was  destined  for  paths  of  juris- 
prudence; for  Michael  had  often  noticed  with 
stealthy  admiration  that,  no  matter  what  little 
gifts  in  the  way  of  either  sweets  or  toys  or  else 
came  into  the  possession  of  the  other  children  of 
a morning,  little  Johneen  owned  them  all  in  the 
evening;  and  money  would  certainly  be  most  use-* 
ful  in  developing  Johneen’s  marvelous  legal  tal- 
ent. Altogether,  money  was  far  from  being  the 
ill  thing  that  those  who  needed  it  were,  for  the 
delectation  of  those  who  had  it,  crying  it  up 
to  be. 

It  was  at  the  time  that  Manis  MacLoughlin  of 
Magheramore,  who  astonished  his  neighbors  by 
building  a house  with  a dozen  windows  and  pur- 
chasing farm  after  farm  of  land,  was  said  to 
have  found  a crock  of  gold  on  his  land,  that 
Michael,  who  never  gave  the  matter  a thought 
before,  began  to  brood  upon  the  great  wealth 


ALL  ON  THE  BROWN  KNOWE  247 

which  was  so  temptingly  within  his  reach — so 
temptingly  within  it,  and  yet  so  tantalizingly  be- 
yond it.  During  the  one  little  space  of  time  in 
each  week  when  an  enterprising  man  might  with 
impunity  lift  the  crock  of  gold  from  under  the 
Fairy  Bowl,  a religious  man,  such  as  Michael, 
dare  not  be  there  to  do  it.  Even  the  very  out- 
casts of  the  parish,  who  desecrated  the  Lord’s 
day  by  playing  cards  for  horny  buttons  at  the 
back  of  a windy  ditch  (for,  of  course,  no  Chris- 
tian house  would  harbor  them),  dare  not  be" 
guilty  of  the  crime  of  missing  Mass — missing,  too* 
that  most  sacred  part  of  it,  which  was  the  time 
chosen  by  the  wily  serpent  for  taking  his  weekly 
saunter.  Farrell  McKeown,  the  ne’er-do-well,  it 
is  true,  purposely  remained  away  from  Mass  one 
day,  five  years  before,  in  order  that,  when  the 
coast  was  clear,  he  might  steal  the  loan  of  Eamonn 
Og’s  game  rooster  for  the  Cock-Tuesday  fights 
in  Killymard.  But,  if  he  did,  Father  Tom  gave 
him  Carrig-na-Mlaguard  for  it  for  three  succes- 
sive Sundays,  making  him  journey  hatless  and 
shoeless  to  Carrig-na-Mlaguard,  or  the  Black- 
guard’s Rock,  and  kneel  there,  telling  his  sin  to  an 
unsympathetic  congregation  filing  past,  and,  in 
plaintive  voice,  beseeching  their  prayers.  This 
price  was  too  dear,  even  to  an  outcast,  for  the 
luxury  of  missing  Mass.  But,  in  Michael’s  .case, 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN* 


248 

the  pious  principles  of  the  man  were  deterrent 
enough,  not  to  speak  of  his  great  moral  prestige 
in  the  parish. 

He  sought  for  long  to  find  a way  of  compassing 
the  crock  without  incurring  the  contingent  sin. 
He  tried  attending  the  Mass  which  in  the  neigh- 
boring chapel  was  celebrated  an  hour  earlier  than 
that  appointed  for  the  Mass  in  Drimard.  This 
scheme  failed  him;  for,  though  he  quitted  the 
Killymard  chapel  the  moment  the  priest  had 
reached  the  trimmings,  and  hasted  with  violent 
haste,  and  though,  likewise,  Father  Tom  never 
stickled  on  punctuality,  but  delayed  Mass  till  even 
the  last  laggards  lumbered  in,  Michael,  when  he 
arrived  at  the  Fairy  Bowl,  panting  and  perspiring, 
coatless  and  breathless,  always  perceived — for  the 
Drimard  chapel  was  just  over  against  him,  and 
a goodly  portion  of  the  congregation  ever  knelt, 
for  fresh  air  and  freedom's  sake,  outside  the  door 
— that  ’twas  after  Elevation  time  with  Father 
Tom,  and  the  serpent  had  again  encoiled  the  prize 
which  he  had  striven  for  as  strenuously  as  a run- 
ner at  Olympus.  Yet,  it  is  highly  creditable  to 
Michael’s  religious  principles  that  under  such  try- 
ing circumstances  he  could  (as  he  did)  bend  for- 
ward his  perspiring  brow,  and  say  aloud,  as  best 
he  could  for  breathlessness,  “Thy  will,  O Lord, 


ALL  ON  THE  BROWN  KNOWE  249 

not  mine,  be  done !” — a constant,  beautiful  prayer 
this  God-serving  of  man. 

He  thought  and  planned,  contrived  and  recon- 
trived, ever  unsuccessfully,  till  at  last,  even  an 
unsuspicious  parish  was  beginning  to  ask  had  any- 
thing come  over  Michael  Connolly,  or  was  he  go- 
ing to  become  a brooder — for  surely  the  world 
wasn’t  going  again’  him,  and  trouble  coming  down 
on  him?  Michael  knew  well  he  was  a changed 
man  himself.  But  he  meant,  with  God’s  help,  that 
he  would  soon  be  his  old  self  again — and  some- 
thing better — as  soon,  in  short,  as  he  got  that 
crock  of  gold  into  his  possession.  But  until  that 
was  accomplished  he  could  not  keep  the  thought  of 
it  from  his  mind,  strive  as  he  would.  Not  even, 
God  forgive  him!  (and  contritely  Michael  ut- 
tered it)  during  his  prayers — what  time  his  mind 
was  sure  to  be  running  on  the  crock. 

So  matters  were  coursing  when  Michael  found 
himself  sauntering  to  Mass  on  Easter  Sunday — 
of  all  days — turning  over  again  in  his  head  for 
the  ten-thousandth  time  a new  contrivance  for  se- 
curing the  crock  of  gold  and  happiness  evermore. 
It  was  a warm,  bright,  lovely  Sunday  morning, 
with  blackbirds  whistling  in  the  hedges,  and  the 
brook  singing  in  the  glen,  and  the  young  people 
airily  and  merrily  tripping  past  him,  decked  out 
in  their  gayest  But  to  these  gay  sounds  and 


250  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

sights  Michael’s  heart  did  not  thrill  as  once  it 
used  to  do.  The  merry  voices  of  the  passers-by 
jarred  on  his  ear,  and  the  genial  heat  of  the  day 
oppressed  his  frame;  so  that,  when  he  reached 
the  Brown  Knowe — that  favorite  fairy-ground 
which  rises  so  pleasantly  from  the  wayside  just 
within  a gun-shot  of  the  chapel — since  there  was 
yet  plenty  of  time  and  to  spare  before  Mass  be- 
gan, rather  than  mingle  with  his  light-hearted 
poor  neighbors,  who  would  be  chatting  too  cheer- 
ily for  him  around  the  chapel-gate,  he  toiled  up 
the  Knowe,  past  its  one  solitary  occupant  (to  wit, 
Torloch  MacFadyeen’s  goat  which  was  taking 
a delicious  lunch  off  a heather  bush),  till,  coming 
near  the  top  of  it  he  threw  himself  down  full- 
length  in  face  of  the  sun,  pulling  his  hat  over  his 
eyes  that  he  might  properly  laze  without  any  dis- 
comfort, and  pursue  the  absorbing  train  of 
thought  on  which  he  had  been  engaged. 

Oh,  if  only  he  could  become  the  possessor  of 
that  crock  of  gold,  how  happy  would  he  be,  as 
well  as  beneficent!  But,  alas,  sure  he  had  looked 
at  it  in  every  light,  and  tried  every  contrivance, 
and  was  now  forced  to  the  conclusion  that  with 
the  demon-serpent  guarding  it  always — almost  al- 
ways, rather — there  was  not  any  possible  means 
of  obtaining  it — not  any  possible  means,  that  is, 
short  of  missing  Mass — which,  of  course,  was  ut- 


ALL  ON  THE  BROWN  KNOWE  251 

terly  impossible — or  nearly  impossible — or  very 
hard,  at  least.  When,  however,  one  permitted 
oneself  the  hazardous  pleasure  of  dwelling  upon 
that  impossible  possibility,  what  a gorgeous  castle 
one  could  raise — a crimeful  castle,  of  course — 1 
bad  as  Blue  Beard’s — still  undoubtedly  a gorgeous 
one.  Ay,  if  only  this  great  crime  were  not  a 
crime  ! If  a man  could  once — only  once — remain 
away  from  Mass — a man,  too,  who  had  never 
missed  Mass  in  all  his  life  before,  since  he  came  to 
years  of  discretion ! If  only  a man  who  had  never 
missed  Mass  before,  and  who  had  resolved  never 
to  miss  it  again,  could  for  once — only  one  single 
little  time — remain  away,  thereby  enriching  him- 
self, and  securing  his  happiness  for  all  time — in 
this  world,  of  course,  that  is ! When  one  came  to 
think  of  it,  if  a man,  even  at  cost  of  one  little  sin, 
acquired  enormous  wealth,  could  he  not  redeem 
his  debt  ten  times  over — ay,  a hundred  times  over 
— with  the  wealth  he  should  become  possessed  of, 
giving,  say,  as  much  as  a quarter  of  the  money  to 
God’s  poor,  and  another  quarter  of  it  scattering 
chapels  to  His  honor  all  over  the  face  of  the 
country,  and  living  a rich,  happy,  contented,  vir- 
tuous, religious  man  upon  the  other  half  himself! 

Put  defeat  upon  the  devil  by  flight,  is  a wise 
maxim  surely.  It  is  ill  to  play  with  forbidden 
thoughts.  Suddenly  crying  out,  “I’ll  do  it — this 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


252 

once!”  Michael  sprang  to  his  feet,  set  his  face  to- 
wards Cronaraid  and  the  Fairy  Bowl,  tore  down 
the  Brown  ICnowe,  and  literally  flew  in  that  direc- 
tion— flew — for  fear  his  conscience  should  over- 
take him  ere  he  had  reaped  the  benefit  from  the 
sin  now,  de  jure,  committed — which  would  be  piti- 
able mismanagement. 

He  went  by  Torloch’s  house,  gripped  a pick  and 
spade  there,  and,  shouldering  them,  sped  onward, 
bounding  up  the  Stony  Park,  and  stopped  not  till 
he  stood  beside  the  Fairy  Bowl,  which,  to-day, 
after  a fortnight’s  drouth,  was  dry  as  his  own 
hearth-stone.  He  gasped,  trying  to  recover  his 
breath;  he  looked  away  toward  the  chapel,  and 
saw  that  the  congregation  were  dropping  to  their 
knees  after  the  first  gospel.  During  the  tedious 
age — common  mortals  had  reckoned  it  by  minutes 
— that  then  intervened  before  he  observed  the 
congregation  prostrating  themselves  at  the  Eleva- 
tion, Michael,  with  heart  thumping  at  his  ribs  so 
loudly  that  he  thought  it  waked  echoes  among  the 
rocks  above,  and  with  teeth  set  firm  as  a vise, 
holding  fast  his  desperate  resolve,  leant  forward 
over  the  spade-handle,  his  protruding  eyes  on  the 
Drimard  congregation.  The  instant  their  falling 
forward  indicated  the  arrival  of  the  sacred  mo- 
ments— moments  pregnant  for  him,  Michael  was 
furiously  tearing  at  the  ground  with  pick  and 


ALL  ON  THE  BROWN  KNOWE  253 

spade  alternately.  It  was  hard  and  tough,  and 
troublesome,  but  he  found  he  had  ten  men’s 
strength.  So  made  he  stone  and  clay  fly  that  an 
onlooker  might  not  make  out  his  figure  amid  the 
clouds  of  debris  that  filled  the  air  around.  But 
at  length  he  had  unbound  the  great  flag  at  the 
well-bottom,  and,  for  the  minutes  were  too-rapidly 
passing,  throwing  himself  hurriedly  on  his  knees, 
the  while  big  beads  of  sweat  came  rolling  from  his 
brow,  wrestled  with  it.  It  came  with  him.  And, 
at  the  sight  disclosed  his  eyes  were  dazzled — 
dazzled!  A crock  of  golden  pieces,  every  one  of 
them  the  size  of  a silver  crown,  and  the  rich 
color  of  Nabla’s  yellow  butter,  calmly  sitting 
there,  now  unguarded,  awaiting  human  hand  to 
lift  it ! 

I said  he  was  dazzled,  I might  have  said  dazed. 
Because  for  the  space  of  several  minutes  he  could 
only  gloat  over  the  elbow-deep  crock  of  yellow 
pieces  which  were  to  make  Michael  Connolly  a 
prince  of  earth.  He  could  not  yet  reach  out  to 
lift  the  crock;  he  could  not  rise  him  from  his 
knees;  he  had  not  yet  power  to  move  one  muscle 
— but  it  was  delicious  paralysis,  during  which  he 
could  feel  the  tears  of  joy  crushing  at  his  eyelids. 
Like  a lightning-flash  struck  him  thought  of  time 
and  the  serpent!  And  instantly  he  was  himself 
again.  He  bent  over  the  crock  and  laid  his  arms 


254  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

lovingly  around  it,  entering — oh,  Heaven ! — into 
joyful  possession!  His  ecstasy  was  interrupted 
by  a terrific  tug  at  his  tail.  He  threw  a hasty 
glance  over  his  shoulder,  let  his  great  armful  of 
riches  drop  back  to  its  bed  again,  and  lifted  up 
his  voice  in  frightful  scream!  For  the  serpent 
had  come  up  unawares  from  behind,  and  laid  hold 
upon  his  coat-tail ! 

He  had  delayed  a minute  too  long.  The  joy  of 
his  possession  had  proved  his  undoing.  He  was 
on  his  feet  in  the  fraction  of  a second,  and  flying 
afar  over  the  country,  but  with  the  terrible  ser- 
pent, a great  and  weighty  monster,  fastened  to 
his  flying  coat-tails  and  streaming  behind,  heavily 
weighting  him.  He  could  see  its  dire,  sinuous 
form  each  time  he  cast  over  shoulder  a fearful 
glance.  Halt,  stop,  or  delay  meant  death,  Michael 
well  knew.  And  his  coat  was  surely  glued  to  his 
shoulders.  His  only  chance  of  safety  lay  in 
speed,  which  would  keep  it  at  safe  distance.  If 
once  he  allowed  his  coat-tails  to  overtake  him,  he 
was  undone.  So,  leaning  still  further  forward 
to  balance  the  pull  behind,  but  with  head  thrown 
back  and  eyes  starting  forth  anticipating  his  tardy 
feet — to  his  impatient  soul  they  seemed  tardy 
that  were  truly  fleet — he  flew,  as  flies  the  hare, 
straight  ahead,  down  the  hillside,  across  the  val- 
ley, up  the  opposite  slope,  unto  the  highway 


ALL  ON  THE  BROWN  KNOWE  255 

which  led  past  Drimard  chapel.  As  he  neared  the 
chapel  and  the  kneeling  congregation,  he  cried  out 
with  all  his  might  that  they  might  be  ready  to  re- 
lieve him.  Disturbed  in  their  devotions,  they 
turned  heads  over  shoulder,  and  were  seized  with 
wondrous  amaze  at  sight  of  Michael,  hatless,  wild- 
eyed, speeding,  and  shouting  as  he  sped,  from  the 
serpent  sailing  behind.  But  their  amazement  was 
too  profound  to  admit  of  their  acting  with  the 
promptitude  that  the  circumstances  demanded. 
They  should  have  knocked  the  cursed  animal  on 
the  head  with  their  sticks  as  he  passed — a thing 
which,  unluckily,  no  man  had  presence  of  mind 
to  do;  and,  alas,  Michael  could  not  wait  on  the 
sluggish  wheels  of  these  people’s  minds.  He 
cursed  them — Michael  Connolly,  who  had  never 
breathed  banned  word  before ! — and  swept  on. 
They  got  again  their  presence  of  mind,  when  they 
were  in  good  time  to  be  late;  for,  immediately 
he  had  passed,  Michael  heard  their  wild  cries  in 
pursuit,  and  he  could  know  in  bitterness  of  heart 
that  they  were  now  brandishing  sticks  and  doing 
doughty  deeds  against  the  harmless  air.  And 
when  they  cried  after  him,  “Stop,  stop,  till  we 
get  a crack  at  the  sarpint,  Michael !”  Michael 
wished  in  his  heart  that  he  could  only  stop  to  get 
a crack  at  the  senseless  amadans  who  so  shouted. 
He  turned  his  head  and  flung  a fervent  curse  at 


256  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

his  following,  while  he  strenuously  strove  for  in- 
crease of  speed;  but  the  tug  behind  restrained  his 
career,  he  thought,  ever  more  and  more.  Away 
up  the  road,  he  beheld  Patrick  Ban  hacking  at  the 
hedge  with  a bill-hook,  even  though  it  was  the 
Sabbath  day;  and  Michael  rejoiced  for  that  Pat- 
rick’s sin  might  now  be  his  salvation.  He  yelled 
upon  Patrick  as  he  came  near:  the  congregation 
still  more  loudly  yelled  upon  Patrick.  One  well- 
directed  blow  of  Patrick’s  bill-hook  would  give  to 
Michael  the  life  with  which,  otherwise,  he  felt  he 
must  soon  part.  In  a minute  Michael,  to  his  mor- 
tification, beheld  Patrick  bound  into  the  middle  of 
the  road,  wildly  waving  the  bill-hook  to  bar  his 
way.  Great  Heavens ! Patrick  must  think  him 
gone  mad,  and  the  people  pursuing  to  put  him  into 
the  strait-waistcoat.  Michael  then  made  aim  to 
fly  on  one  side,  past  Patrick,  who,  seeing  this, 
bounded  to  that  side,  getting  directly  in  his  course 
again.  There  was  only  one  thing  for  Michael  to 
do,  and  he  did  it.  Lowering  his  head,  he  threw 
himself  full  force  upon  Patrick,  ramming  him  in 
the  stomach.  Clearing  his  curled-up  body  at  a 
bound,  he  continued  his  fleet  career.  Manis 
Og  O’Gallagher  who  was  cleaning  out  his  byre 
when  the  shouting  reached  and  roused  him,  got 
before  Michael  with  a graip;  and  Eamon  O’Beirne 
stationed  himself  in  the  way,  somewhat  further 


ALL  ON  THE  BROWN  KNOWE  257 

on,  armed  with  a scythe.  Good  Mrs.  Bridget 
Boyle,  still  further  on  his  course,  came  out  with 
a pot-stick;  Terry  the  tailor  came  forth  with  lap- 
board — all  bent  upon  deeds  of  derring-do.  But 
all  of  them  ingloriously  bit  the  dust — in  each  case 
quickly  arising  again,  however,  and  with  ardor 
throwing  them  into  the  pursuit. 

Behind  him  now  was  Babel.  But  suddenly 
rising  over  it,  sharp  and  clear,  he  heard  a “Hi ! 
hi!  hi!  there!”  that  was  from  none  other  than 
Father  Tom.  Casting  back  a hurried  glance, 
he  was  somewhat  surprised  to  find  that  Father 
Tom,  on  whose  start  a handicap  in  favor  of  his 
congregation  must  necessarily  have  been  imposed, 
now  led.  He  was  waving  his  stick  and  calling  in 
the  imperative  tones  of  a pastor  accustomed  to 
obedience,  “Hi,  hi,  hi!  there,  Michael  Connolly!” 
But,  pastor  or  no  pastor,  Michael  could  not  halt. 
The  weight  at  his  tail  was  becoming  a weight  at 
his  soul.  Instead  of  obeying  he  bent  him  for  re- 
newed exertion.  Yet  Father  Tom  (who  had  got 
miraculously  fleet  of  foot)  had  in  another  minute 
overhauled  him.  A powerful  whack  of  the  priest’s 
stick  apprised  Michael  of  the  fact;  and,  at  the 
same  time,  the  priest’s  voice,  in  his  ear,  crying  to 
him  angrily: 

“It’s  to  Carrig-na-Mlaguard  you’ll  march  for 
this,  my  lad ! Slumbering  like  a sloth,  and  bellow- 


258  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

ing  like  a calf,  on  the  Brown  Knowe,  while  the 
Holy  Sacrifice  of  the  Mass  is  supposed  to  be  cele- 
bratin’. And  the  remnants  of  the  tails  ate  out  of 
your  new  broadcloth  coat,  too,  by  Torloch’s  goat 
— who’d  have  got  a taste  of  yourself  likewise 
(and  the  devil’s  cure  to  you!)  if  I hadn’t  hap- 
pened along  just  in  the  nick  of  time.  Up  with 
ye!”  and  he  gave  Michael,  who,  in  sitting  pos- 
ture, was  rubbing  his  eyes  and  trying  to  collect  his 
senses,  a sounding  whack  in  the  ribs  that  lifted 
him  to  his  feet,  and  sent  him  down  the  Brown 
Knowe  in  quick  time,  and  scurrying  along  the  road 
to  the  chapel. 

The  congregation  wondered  why  Michael  Con- 
nolly looked  so  dazed  as  he  pushed  in  through 
them — and  their  wonder  was  supplanted  by  sub- 
dued amusement  when  they  got  a glimpse  of  his 
rear.  They  would  not  have  wondered  at  Michael’s 
look  had  they  known  of  the  conflicting  emotions 
that  held  him  both  then  and  throughout  all  the 
Mass — the  anguished  horror  of  all  he  had  come 
through  in  the  five  minutes  that  he  had  slumbered 
on  the  Brown  Knowe,  and  the  all-as-painful  joy 
for  that  it  was  not  real.  But,  as  minute  after  min- 
ute lapsed,  the  joy  of  escape  outweighed  more  and 
more  the  horror — so  much  so  indeed,  that  had 
Father  Tom  put  his  threat  into  execution,  and 
sent  him  hatless,  shoeless,  to  kneel  at  Carrig-na^ 


ALL  ON  THE  BROWN  KNOWE  259 

Mlaguard,  beseeching  the  sympathy  of  a jeering 
congregation,  he  felt  he  could  have  done  so  with 
delight  swelling  at  his  heart.  As  he  walked  home, 
breathing  air  that  was  as  wine,  the  beautiful  sense 
of  relief  that  pervaded  every  nerve  in  his  body 
made  him  utterly  oblivious  of  the  discourse  di- 
rected at  him  by  passing  neighbors,  and  the 
smiles  and  smudges,  too — even  the  hilarious 
laughter  of  rude  youths,  who  elbowed  their  fel- 
lows, directing  attention  to  Michael  Connolly’s 
chewed-off  coat-tails.  He  said  to  himself  a hun- 
dred times,  “It  was  a warning,  Michael,  it  was  a 
warning.  Thank  God  for  it!  You  have  done 
once  and  for  all,  now,  with  that  crock  of  cursed 
gold  inunder  the  Fairy  Bowl,  an’  ye’re  going  to 
be  happy  again.” 

It  is  true  that  Nabla  raged,  questioning  him, 
when  he  entered  home  in  his  curtailed  coat.  But 
even  Nabla’s  rage  was  almost  a joy  to  him  now. 
He  drew  his  arms  from  out  the  coat,  leaving  it 
with  her,  strode  up  to  the  room  which  was  above 
the  kitchen,  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  then 
knelt  down,  bowing  his  head  above  clasped  hands, 
and  in  angelic  resignation  praying — “Oh,  Lord, 
Thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done!” — But  his  eye 
inadvertently  glanced  through  the  window, 
toward  the  Stony  Park,  and  rested  on  the  pleas- 
ant green  spot  which  encircled  the  Fairy  Bowl; 


260  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

whereupon  shaking  his  head  sorrowfully,  as  he 
dropped  back  to  human  plane,  he  added,  in  un- 
dertone— to  himself,  not  the  Lord — “Though  ’tis 
mortal  shame  it  must  be  so.” 


XV 


THE  HEART-BREAK  OF  NORAH  O’HARA 

IF  you  screenged  all  Ireland  with  a herrin’- 
net  from  Derry  to  Kerry  and  back  again,  it’s 
my  head  foregain’  a crooked  h’penny  that  no 
sonsier,  heartier,  happier  couple  could  you  catch 
than  Norah  O’Hara  and  her  man  Barney,  who 
lived  together  on  the  aist  shoulder  of  Haverly 
Hill,  with  their  back  to  the  win’  and  their  face 
to  the  sun,  in  a wee  whitewashed  thatched  house, 
as  clean  as  a hound’s  tooth,  and  filled  from  thresh- 
hold  to  back  stone,  and  from  floor  to  riggin’  with 
aise,  paice,  and  God’s  grace — so  full  that  there 
wasn’t  left  a rush’s  point  o’  room  for  cark  or 
care  to  light  a foot  upon. 

Their  five  acres  of  lowlands,  and  mountain  run 
for  sixty  sheep,  gave  them  full  and  plenty,  left 
them  well  fed  apd  warmly  clad,  owin’  no  man  at 
the  year’s  end,  and  snapping  their  fingers  at  hun- 
ger, hardships,  Winter  weather,  and  nor’aist 
winds. 

The  good-luck  crickets  that  chorused  from  their 
chimney,  the  neighbors  could  hear  half  a mile 

261 


262 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


away.  And  “Happy  as  Norah  O’Hara’s  hearth- 
stone” was  a byword  for  the  baronry. 

Little  likelihood  there  seemed  of  Norah  and 
Barney’s  happiness  haltin’  this  side  o’  heaven, 
when  a happenin’  happened  one  night  in  the 
Spring  o’  the  year,  that,  if  the  good  Lord  hadn’t 
been  overpartial  to  the  pair,  would  have  set* the 
cloud  in  their  cottage  for  once  and  for  all  and 
forever. 

’Twas  of  a night  in  the  last  o’  March,  in  the 
night’s  middle,  or  maybe  drawin’  on  mornin’, 
that  me  brave  Barney  was  suddenly  wakened  from 
a sound  sleep  and  happy  dhraims  by  a heart- 
broken sob  from  Norah  that  would  splinther  the 
knots  in  mahogany;  and  he  found  her  sitting  up 
in  her  out-shot  bed,  which  was  nigh  the  kitchen 
fire,  moanin’  and  groanin’  as  if  she  was  waitin’ 
the  Last  Minute. 

“Musha,  Norah,  asthore,”  says  he,  “tell  me 
what’s  come  over  ye — or  will  I run  for  doctor  and 
priest?” 

“Och!  Och!”  says  she,  “ ’tis  little  more  good 
than  them  two  black  turf  at  the  hearthstone,  doc- 
tor or  priest  would  mean  to  me  in  my  calamity.” 

“Why,  Norah!”  says  Barney,  “is  it  as  bad  as 
that,  that  it  is?” 

“Ncbbut  twice  worse,”  says  she. 

“Make  me  sinsible,  avourneen,”  says  he. 


HEART-BREAK  OF  NORAH  O’HARA  263 

“It’s  what,”  says  she,  “I  woke  sudden  out  of 
me  sound  sleep  just  now,  with  thought  in  my 
mind  of  the  comely  handsome  fellow  you,  Bar- 
ney O’Hara,  were,  the  day  that  I married  you 
seven-and-thirty  years  ago,  come  We’nsday  next.” 
“Well,  be  the  lawdhers,”  says  Barney,  when  he 
got  his  breath  with  him,  “but  that  was  a quare 
thing  entirely  for  to  frighten  ye  into  fits!” 

“Och!  Och!  Barney,”  says  she,  “but  ’twas 
thinkin’  of  what  you  looked  like  in  your  youth 
and  your  straightness  and  your  handsomeness 
then,  and  knowin’  what  you  look  in  your  age  and 
your  stoop  and  wrinkledness  now,  that  put  the 
crushin’  heartbr’ak  on  me.” 

“Tchuk!  tchuk!  tchuk!”  says  Barney,  “Did 
ever  any  one  under  heaven  hear  tell  of  such  a 
dumbfoundherin’  woman’s  raison  for  bein’  over- 
tuk  by  a heartbr’ak!” 

“Och ! och !”  says  Norah,  says  she,  with  another 
sigh  that  would  split  the  heart  of  a whinstone 
rock,  “why  wouldn’t  the  good  Lord  have  left  you 
to  me  the  comely,  bright-eyed,  black-haired,  red- 
cheeked boy  you  were  on  our  weddin’  day!  Nei- 
ther rant  nor  raison  is  of  no  use,  Barney.  From 
this  day  till  the  day  I die  I’ll  never  know  aise  or 
paice,  bewailin’  my  calamity.” 

“Is  it  crazy  the  woman’s  gone,  entirely?”  says 
the  dumbfoundered  Barney. 


264  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

I 

“Crazy  or  lazy — nickname  it  as  you  please, 
Barney  O’Hara,”  says  Norah,  “but  that  won’t 
help  me  sad  case.  Unless  yourself  or  the  good 
Lord  works  a miracle  and  gives  back  to  me  the 
self-same  Barney  that  Father  MacHugh  married 
me  on,  seven-and-thirty  years  ago,  ’tis  a heart- 
broken woman  I’ll  hurry  to  me  grave.” 

And  there  you  were ! 

Poor  Barney  could  as  aisy  fetch  down  the  stars 
with  finger  stones  as  he  could  raison  into  the  head 
of  his  sighin’  and  sorrowin’  Norah  the  raison  for 
the  change  that  had  come  over  him  in  thirty-seven 
years.  Norah  neither  bobbed  an  eye  herself,  nor 
let  him  stail  a wink,  the  remainder  of  the  night — 
and  did  little  good  next  day — nor  any  day  for  a 
fortnight  followin’. 

Neither  priest  nor  parson  could  get  common 
sinse  into  the  inside  of  her  head.  She’d  never 
cease  honin’  and  moanin’  over  the  handsome  Bar- 
ney she’d  long  ago  married.  Until  she  fell  into 
melancholy,  and  the  pair  who’d  been  the  happiest, 
found  themselves  the  miserablest,  within  the  ba- 
rony. 

Like  a moonstruck  half-wit,  Barney  went 
mumpin’  and  mopin’  day  after  day  up  hill  and 
down  dale.  Till  one  evenin’  of  May  itself,  he  was 
returnin’  home  from  one  of  his  meanderin’s — 
and,  skirtin’  the  rim  of  Crolly  Hill  (always  famed 


HEART-BREAK  OF  NORAH  O’HARA  265 

far  and  wide  for  its  fairies),  he  was  roused  from 
the  sort  of  day-dream  in  which  he  was,  by  hearing 
a tick-tock!  tick-tock!  coming  fast  and  furious 
from  the  hawthorn  hedge  at  the  hill’s  bottom. 

“Be  the  powers,”  says  Barney,  says  he,  after  he 
had  listened  for  a minute  with  his  mouth  opened, 
“but,  if  there’s  a leprechawn  on  the  world’s  rim 
this  evenin’,  that’s  one.” 

And,  as  he  snooked  toward  the  hedge,  on  his 
tippy-toes,  he  had  his  heart  in  his  mouth.  For, 
all  the  world  knows  that  the  man  who  finds  a 
leprechawn — who  can  grant  you  any  wish  in  the 
wide  world — is  luckier  far  than  him  who  finds  a 
diamond  mine. 

And,  sure  enough,  in  two  minutes’  time,  Bar- 
ney’s eyes  were  blessed  with  the  sight  of  a weeny 
teeny  leprechawn  cobbling  the  fairy  shoes  under 
a fairy  thorn.  And,  in  two  minutes  more,  by 
noiseless  marchin’  and  good  gineralship,  he  had 
the  dumbfoundhered  little  jintleman  by  the  scroof 
o’  the  neck,  and  layin’  him  under  commands. 

Afther  the  tricksome  villain  had  vainly  tried  all 
his  arts  to  get  Barney’s  eye  lifted  from  him,  so 
he  might  vanish,  he  at  last  had  to  purchase  his 
freedom  by  consentin’  to  grant  Barney  whatever 
wish  he  wanted. 

“Wish  for  whatsomever  you  choose,”  says  the 
leprechawn,  “and  yours  it’ll  be.” 


266 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


Now,  as  aisy  as  kiss  your  han’,  Barney  could 
have  had  a thousand  pounds,  or  such  a flock  of 
sheep  as  would  make  black  and  white  the  hill  of 
Crolly;  but  right  wisely  he  said  to  himself,  “ ’Tis 
small  account  are  pots  o’  gold,  or  flocks  o’  sheep, 
if  one  hasn’t  content:  and  that’s  a blessin’  I’ll  not 
know  till  Norah’s  calamity  is  counteracted.” 

So  without  stop  or  stay,  he  says  to  the  lepre- 
chawn,  “ ’Tis  what  I wish  that  I might  be  as 
young  and  handsome  again  as  I was  on  my  wed- 
din’  day.” 

“Your  wish  you’ll  have,”  says  the  leprechawn, 
“this  night,  the  morra  night,  or  the  night  after, 
ere  the  turn  o’  the  moon.  On  either  one  of  the 
three  nights,  within  the  hour  before  dawn,  when 
the  ring  o’  day  has  just  begun  showin’  over  the 
shoulder  of  Croagh  Ghorm,  be  at  the  Well  of 
Wurra  Mor,  and  throw  into  it  three  king-fern 
stalks  in  the  name  o’  the  fairies,  and  drink  from  it 
three  drinks  o’  water  in  heaven’s  name.  Then 
you’ll  be  what  you’ve  wished  to  be.  Only,”  says 
the  leprechawn,  “observe  well  that  ye  don’t  give 
away  the  saicret — else  it’ll  be  worse  for  ye.” 

With  a happy  heart  Barney  could  then  afford 
to  free  his  leprechawn,  and  let  him  vanish.  Home 
he  didn’t  go  that  night,  but  walked  the  dales  till 
the  appointed  hour  came,  and  found  him  by  the 


HEART-BREAK  OF  NORAH  O’HARA  267 

Well  of  Wurra  Mor,  and  carryin’  out  the  little 
fella’s  diractions. 

In  a jiffy  he  found  himself  a strait  and  strong 
bouchal  again,  alive  and  active,  with  the  blood  of 
young  manhood  scamperin’  in  his  veins  and 
thrashin’  at  the  doors  of  his  heart ! And  the  soon- 
risen  day  showed  him  in  the  shiny  waters  a black- 
haired, bright-eyed,  rosy-cheeked  comely  young 
fellow,  whose  handsome  aiqual  was  rare,  and 
far  to  find. 

And  with  the  blood  of  him  singin’  and  the  heart 
of  him  dancin’,  ’tis  hurryin’  home  to  Norah  me 
brave  Barney  quickly  was. 

At  the  fireside  stirring  the  breakfast  stirabout, 
and  wondering  to  herself  what  on  earth  had  hap- 
pened to  Barney  who  didn’t  come  home  last  night, 
Norah  was,  when  he  reached  the  house.  And  to 
surprise  and  overjoy  her,  he  said  never  a word, 
as  he  slipped  in  o’  the  door,  and  up  behind  her  at 
the  fireside,  and  threw  his  arms  around  her.  And 
when  she  turned  up  to  him  an  alarmed  counte- 
nance, he  gave  her  a right  hearty  pog  straight  on 
the  lips  of  her,  and  then  drew  back  a step  just  to 
dumbfoundher  her  out  and  out  with  the  spectacle 
of  the  comely  young  Barney  that  she’d  wedded 
seven-and-thirty  years  ago. 

But  instead  of  the  cry  of  joy  he  expected,  ’twas 
a roar  o’  rage  Norah  put  out  of  her,  as  she  wal- 


268 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


loped  him  across  the  face  with  the  pot-stick, 
nearly  knocking  him  completely  off  his  under- 
standing. 

“How  dare  ye,  ye  impudent  jackeen!”  says  she. 
“If  my  man  Barney  was  here,  ’tis  sweep  the  floor 
with  you  he’d  do,  before  drowndin’  your  impu- 
dence in  the  du’ghill!” 

“Ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!”  Barney  he  laughed, 
with  his  hands  on  his  sides,  and  tryin’  to  contain 
himself  at  the  joke  o’  the  thing. 

“Is  it  not  know  me  you  do,  Norah?”  says  he. 

“No,  nor,  what’s  more,  do  I want  to  know 
the  likes  o’  ye.  Begone!”  says  she,  “from  me 
sight  now  and  forever,”  lifting  the  pot-stick  again 
and  makin’  such  a poltog  at  him  that,  if  he  hadn’t 
jumped  like  a hare,  would  have  made  mash  of  his 
skull  for  him. 

“But  take  a long  look  at  me,  Norah,”  says  he, 
as  best  he  could  for  the  merriment  that  was  shakin’ 
him. 

“A  little  of  some  people  goes  a long  way,” 
says  she,  makin’  another  smash  at  him.  “Begone 
wit’  ye,  out  o’  me  sight!” 

“But,  Norah!  Norah!”  says  he — 

“If  you’re  still  standin’  there  when  Barney 
comes  in,”  says  she,  “you’ll  have  your  hide  well 
warmed  for  you  the  next  minute  afther!” 


HEART-BREAK  OF  NORAH  O’HARA  269 

“But  Norah,  a stor”  says  he,  “sure  it’s  Bar- 
ney I am !” 

It’s  look  at  him  she  did  then  as  if  she  would 
swallow  him  without  givin’  him  a tooth.  Her 
look  of  contimpt  soon  changed  to  one  of  wonder; 
and,  next  minute  her  eyes  were  the  size  of  small 
saucers,  with  surprise. 

“Why,”  says  she,  “whoever  ye  are  or  whatever 
ye  are,  you’re  the  dead  spit  of  what  my  Barney 
was  the  day  I wedded  him  seven-and-thirty  years 
ago,  come  We’nsday.’’ 

“And  that’s  what  I am,  Norah,”  says  he.  “For 
woeful  weeks  you’ve  been  heartbroken  for  to  have 
me  back  in  the  comely  youth  of  my  weddin’  day. 
Now  you  have  me  as  you  wish  me  and  you’ll 
never  know  an  onhappy*  moment  in  your  life 
more.” 

“Barney!”  says  she,  “Barney!”  takin’  hold  of 
him  in  her  arms.  “It’s  like,  I’d  do,  to  go  on  me 
knees  thankin’  heaven  for  this — and  never  get 
up  again!  And,”  says  she,  “tell  me  how  did  you 
manage  it!” 

“Och,  Norah!”  says  he,  “just  be  content  to 
thank  heaven,  without  bein’  over  curious.  How  I 
managed  it  is  a saicret  that  I darsen’t  tell  you.” 

For  the  very  dint  o’  the  joy  it’s  hardly  spake 
she  could,  but  hugged  Barney  till  his  ribs  cracked, 
and  cried  over  him  as  she  would  a baby  in  the 


270 


TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 


cradle.  And,  sure  enough,  for  the  first  time  in  a 
black  fortnight  Norah  O’Hara’s  heart  was  as 
happy  as  a hare  in  harvest. 

Only,  there  was  one  wee  drawback  to  her  joy 
that  kept  it  from  being  complete  out  and  out.  If 
she  could  only  pry  Barney’s  secret  from  him,  or 
how  he  got  his  youth  again,  she’d  no  longer  have 
any  unfulfilled  wish  in  all  the  worl’. 

So,  instead  of  givin’  up  herself  and  Barney  to 
the  happy  heartedness  that  should  be  theirs,  she 
worried  herself  and  wearied  him,  entreatin’  that 
he  let  her  know  how  he  done  the  miracle. 

“Now  can’t  you  be  happy,”  Barney  said, 
“havin’  me  as  you  wanted  me,  and  let  well  enough 
alone  before  you  spoil  the  puddin’.” 

But  she  wouldn’t.  She’d  be  happy  forever  and 
never  pine  for  anything  else  if  she  could  only 
discover  Barney’s  saicret.  And  till  he  would  tell 
it  to  her,  she  said  her  mind  wouldn’t  know  aise, 
paice,  nor  content. 

All  of  that  lee-long  day  she  kept  naggin’  at 
Barney  to  know  his  saicret — and  well  into  the 
night,  too.  And  when  both  of  them  from  sheer 
weariness  fell  asleep  at  last,  she’d  rouse  up  every 
half-hour  with  new  strength  enough  to  wake 
Barney,  and  begin  again  her  beseechin’  all  over. 

So  that  at  long  last  my  poor  Barney  by  break 
o’  day  in  the  mornin’,  broke  down  complete  and 


HEART-BREAK  OF  NORAH  O’HARA  271 

told  her  the  before  and  the  behind  of  his  saicret. 

‘‘And  now,”  says  Barney,  says  he,  “your  nog- 
gin’ o’  happiness  is  full  for  evermore — and  I can 
have  me  sleep.” 

But  that  instant  Norah  wrung  her  hands  and 
raised  a heart-rendin’  wail  that  would  shame  a 
banshee. 

“And  och,  Barney  O’Hara,”  says  she,  “when  it 
was  as  aisy  to  wish  for  two  as  for  one,  wasn’t 
it  the  unmanly  thing  for  you  to  do — to  go  wishin’ 
youth  for  yourself,  alone,  laivin’  me  a gray-haired 
and  withered  old  hag!  Och!  och!  och!”  says  she, 
wailin’  as  if  her  heart  would  burst,  “wasn’t 
that  the  quare  thing  for  you  to  do,  Barney 
O’Hara!” 

And  if  Norah  had  been  onhappy  before  she 
wormed  his  saicre't  from  Barney,  she  was  now  in 
misery  entirely.  And  Barney  got  neither  rest, 
paice,  nor  aise,  havin’  to  harken  to  her  weepin’ 
and  wailin’  all  that  day  long.  Every  time  that  he 
ventured  to  laive  the  house,  in  behopes  to  aise 
his  ears  for  a few  minutes  of  the  doleful  cries  of 
her,  she’d  raise  the  uproar  that  it  was  goin’  out 
he  was  now  to  have  the  young  girls  admirin’  him, 
without  any  consarn  for  the  poor  old  wisp  of  a 
woman,  who  had  worn  herself  out  for  him  for 
seven-and-thirty  years  and  was  now  only  fit  to 
be  thrown  in  a dark  corner. 


272  TOP  O’  THE  MORNIN’ 

And  there  you  were ! She  dinned  her  woes  into 
Barney’s  tired  head  till  heaven  sent  the  sleep  of 
weariment  to  him,  in  his  bed,  long  after  midnight 
of  the  second  day  of  their  happiness. 

It  was  after  daybreak  when  he  woke  up.  And, 
wonderin’  at  the  paice  that  filled  the  house  for  the 
first  time  in  forty-eight  hours  he  turned  round  and 
found  Norah’s  place  in  the  bed  empty.  She  had 
slipped  off  while  he  was  sleepin’,  and  had  left 
the  door  open.  The  poor  distracted  man,  con- 
siderin’ that  his  wife  had  lost  her  wits,  and  went 
off  to  do  harm  to  herself,  bounced  from  his  bed 
and  pulled  his  duds  on  him,  and  away  with  him 
over  the  country  askin’  of  everyone  he  met  if 
they’d  seen  Norah. 

But  neither  hint  nor  hair  of  her  did  he  find  nor 
hear,  till  he  met  up  with  a group  of  child  tot- 
terin’ to  school,  and  was  cross-quistioning  them 
likewise  to  no  purpose.  The  heart  of  him  was 
touched  to  see  one  littler  child  than  any  of  them, 
hurrying  after  them,  and  sobbing  heart-br’akingly. 
He  lifted  the  little  one  in  his  arms,  and  in  his 
own  tender  sootherin’  way,  asked  it  what  ailed  it, 
to  keep  it  sobbin’  so. 

“Barney,  Barney,  Barney,  avillish!”  it  says 
back  to  him,  “don’t  you  know  me ! Sure  it’s  your 
wife  Norah,  I am!” 

You  might  knock  Barney  down  with  a sthraw, 


HEART-BREAK  OF  NORAH  O’HARA  273 

he  was  so  thunderstruck  at  the  answer  the  child 
gave  him.  But  lookin’  closer,  it  was  dumbfoun- 
dhered  entirely  he  was,  to  see  that  sure  enough 
’twas  Norah  herself  that  was  in  it. 

“Norah!  Norah!  Norah!  alanna!”  says  he, 
“what’s  this,  or  what’s  happened,  tell  me?’’ 

“Och,  Barney,”  says  she,  “the  world’s  come  to 
an  end  entirely ! After  learnin’  your  saicret,  and 
desirin’  to  make  myself  a fittin’  and  winsome 
young  wife  for  the  comely  young  husband  ye  are, 
I hurried  off  with  meself  to  get  my  good  wish  at 
the  Well  of  Wurra  Mor,  ’afore  day  should  br’ak 
on  this  third  and  last  mornin’  o’  the  charm. 

“But  wirra,  wirra,  wirra,  wantin’  to  make  the 
sure  thing  doubly  sure,  I didn’t  stop  at  three 
drinks,  but  went  on  and  took  six!  And  ye  be- 
hold what  it  left  me!  a child  of  eight  years  old!” 
“Och,  och!”  groaned  poor  Barney,  “there’s  the 
woman  o’  it  again.  Enough  is  never  sufficient.” 
“And  from  this  time  out,”  wailed  Norah,  “this 
child  as  the  wife  of  Barney  O’Hara,  ’ill  be  the 
cold  worl’s  laughing  stock.  Till  now,”  says  she, 
“I  never  knew  what  rale  misery  was.  Och!  och! 
och !”  and  her  sobbing  would  melt  the  heart  of 
a crowbar. 

“ ’Tis  a purty  mess  you  have  made  of  our  lives,” 
says  Barney,  blubberin’,  himself,  at  last.  “But 
as  you  couldn’t  laive  things  as  God  meant  them, 


274 


TOP  O’  THE  MORN  IN’ 


the  next  best  thing  we  can  do  is  take  the  conse- 
quences like  loyal  Christians.  Come  home  with 
me,  Norah,”  says  he,  gatherin’  the  child  in  his 
arms  again,  “and  let’s  make  the  best  of  it.’’ 

“Brave  words  well  said!”  says  a suddent  little 
voice  above  their  heads  that  made  both  of  them 
stumble  and  look  up. 

A cry  came  from  the  two  of  their  mouths  when 
they  beheld  none  other  than  the  leprechawn  him- 
self saited  on  a swayin’  branch  of  the  hawthorn 
bush  that  was  bloomin’  above  them — comfortably 
saited  and  smilin’  a smile  on  both  o’  them  that  was 
half  worriment  and  half  merriment. 

“ ’Tis  seldom,”  says  he,  “that  I give  wish  of  my 
own  free  will  to  man  or  mortal.  But  I have  such 
pity  on  the  plight  that  this  woman  has  put  the 
pair  o’  you  in,  that  I’ve  come  to  grant  ye  what- 
somever  last  wish  the  wish  o’  your  hearts  may  be.” 

“May  the  heavens  bless  you  and  your  kind, 
forever  and  forever,”  says  Barney. 

“Oh,  leprechawn,  darlin’,  then  let  me  wish,” 
Norah  was  beginnin’. 

But  “Hold  youi  whist,  woman!”  says  Barney, 
says  he,  “or  you’ll  sink  the  bottom  out  o’  the  bog 
that  you’ve  brought  us  both  to.  ’Tis  me  blame 
and  shame  that  I let  so  witless  a woman  have  her 
way  for  so  long.  Just,”  says  Barney,  says  he  to 
the  leprechawn,  “laive  us  both  back  where  we 


HEART-BREAK  OF  NORAH  O’HARA  275 

were  again,  a dacint,  respectable,  happy,  gray- 
haired old  man  and  wife.” 

“More  power  to  you!”  says  the  leprechawn, 
givin’  a fling  of  a dance  upon  the  branch  he  was 
perched  on — and  sendin’  a heavy  shower  of  haw- 
thorn bloom  over  the  head  and  shoulders  of  the 
up-gazin’  pair. 

And  when  they  shook  the  drifts  of  flowers  out 
o’  their  eyes,  the  leprechawn  had  disappeared. 
Both  o’  them  then  looked  at  one  another  in  won- 
der— Barney’s  eyes  beholdin’  before  him  his  own 
sweet  old  wrinkled  woman  again,  worth  her 
weight  in  goold — and  Norah’s,  her  own  dacint 
old  man  Barney,  every  gray  hair  on  whose  head 
better  than  a string  o’  pearls! 

Under  the  fairy  (thorn  they  embraced,  and 
kissed  a lovin’  kiss,  and  with  arms  about  aich 
another’s  waists  went  home,  the  joyfulest  lovers 
that  the  winds  o'  the  world  blew  upon. 

And  from  that  day  out,  in  their  little  cabin, 
crammed  to  the  riggin’  with  content,  and  heark- 
enin’ forever  to  the  cricket’s  song,  they  never 
afterward  knew  an  hour  less  joyful. 


\ 


3 9031 


01 


326052 


91661 


ih5  rt  /QC 

f57 

i°i£0 

BOSTON  COLLEGE  LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY  HEIGHTS 
CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS. 


Books  may  be  kept  for  two  weeks  and  may 
be  renewed  for  the  same  period,  unless  re- 
served. 

Two  cents  a day  is  charged  for  each  book 
kept  overtime. 

If  you  cannot  find  what  you  want,  ask  the 
Librarian  who  will  be  glad  to  help  you. 

The  borrower  is  responsible  for  books  drawn 
on  his  card  and  for  all  fines  accruing  on  the 


same. 


